A treatise of human nature

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PHILOSOPHY
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HUME'S

TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE
WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY
A. D. LINDSAY, M.A. • VOL. II.

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A TREATISE
Of" HUMAN
NATURE @
^DAVID HUME

V VOLUME II V

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byJ-M-DENT &-SONS-IF
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INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME II

Hume's main philosophical interest was, as he tells us
himself, in morals and politics. " I cannot forbear," he
says in the last section of the fourth part of Book I.,
" having a curiosity to be acquainted with the principles
of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of
government, and the cause of those several passions and
inclinations which actuate and govern me." The discus-
sion of logical and metaphysical principles in the first book
is intended as an introduction to the moral and political
subjects of the second and third. Yet the connection
between Books II. and III. and Book I. is not strict.
Hume's morals do not depend on his metaphysics; rather
the purpose of his metaphysical discussions is to show that
reason is impotent both in science and in conduct, and
therefore has no bearing at all on moral inquiries. The
second part of the Treatise makes it clearer than ever that
Hume's scepticism is a criticism of reason and not of life.
The self whose existence he explained away in Book I. is
taken for granted in Books II. and III. ; and in his account
of the will Hume insists emphatically on the reality of moral
causation. For the first part of the Treatise has established
the independence and self-suf&cingness of the passions and
of man's moral nature, and defended them against all
dictation of reason. In these books therefore Hume leaves
his scepticism behind him. He is no longer a revolutionary.
His moral theory follows in its main outlines the senti-
mentalist school of the eighteenth century. In morals and
politics he is " on the side of the angels," and plays his part
in making objections to the doctrines of MandevUle and
Hobbes, who are the two Mephistopheles of the eighteenth
century in morals and politics, as Hume himself was to be
in metaphysics.

This must not be taken to imply that Hume changed his
opinions when he came to the consideration of moral ques-
tions; rather, to adapt words Kant used of himself, he

vii

viii Hume's Philosophical Works

had criticised reason to make room for custom and passion,
and so attained a general position as to the nature of
reason and the part played by the association of ideas
which admitted in the moral sphere of more constructive
results.

These books display the same general characteristics as
the first: a criticism of reason in favour of feeling, a
recognition of the difficulty of explaining some of the facts
by mere empiricism, and an attempt to meet this difficulty
by the theory of the association of ideas. This last point
is developed in these books in Hume's account of sympathy,
perhaps his most important contribution to moral theory.

To appreciate Hume's criticism of reason in the moral
sphere we must remember the doctrines he is criticising.
When the intellectual school of eighteenth-century moralists,
of whom Cudworth and Clark were the most notable
representatives, asserted that morals were a concern of
reason, they meant that moral laws were such that they
could be deduced from the general nature of things, and
that in consequence moral philosophy was, or at least
ought to be, an inquiry of the same certainty and a priori
nature as mathematics. Even Locke, for all his empiricism,
held that morality was, like mathematics, a deductive
science, concerned only with the agreement or disagree-
ment of our ideas. All such theories, whatever particular
form they may take, whether they seek to deduce moral
law from the eternal fitness of things or from the con-
sistency of our own ideas, agree in supposing that in any
particular circumstances the right course of action is, or
ought to be, deducible with perfect certainty or accuracy.
Of them all it may be said that the boldness of their claims
makes a striking contrast with the poverty of their per-
formances. Whether in morals or in politics, all that such
theories can do is to take actions or principles that are
already generally acknowledged to be right and, by the
exercise of considerable ingenuity, give an explanation of
that Tightness which fits in with their formulae. But their
wisdom is invariably ex post facto. In any new circum-
stances, that is, when information is really wanted, their
guidance is not forthcoming.

This failure to work out a deductive system of morality,

^ Introduction ix

to find any principle from which rights and duties may be
concluded from reason alone, has sometimes led to a
reaction, a denial of the validity of moral distinctions
altogether. The sentimental school were set with the
problem of finding a middle way between intellectualism
and the moral scepticism of Hobbes. For Hobbes makes
moral distinctions dependent on the commands of the
sovereign and moral principles the outcome of men's fear
working through an artificial society. The sentimental
school, whatever the defects of their doctrine, had the
advantage of holding firm to the independence and self-
sufi&ciency of the moral judgment, refusing to allow it to
become a mere intellectual exercise or an outcome simply
of the desire to seek pleasure and avoid pain. Their
doctrine of the moral sense is little more than an assertion
of this refusal. For when we come to ask of it what the
moral sense is, and what is its relation to reason or to
feeling, from which it is distinguished, we get into diffi-
culties. For the belief in a moral sense, independent of our
reasoning and intellect on the one hand, and our feelings
of pleasure and pain on the other, would seem to suggest
that thinking and experience had no place at all in the
moral life and leads easily to a crude intuitionism, a
doctrine that in virtue of some mysterious power within us,
usually called conscience, we always know infallibly what
is right and wrong; that of the rightness or wrongness
of actions no other explanation or criticism can be found
than the decision of this power which is infallible only
because there is nothing to correct it. This doctrine,
taken thus crudely, is incompatible with any progress in
moral insight and with the results of the most modest
attempt to see if our moral judgments display any kind of
system. If we try to make the doctrine less crude, we
are forced to admit both the necessity of thinking in morals
(and that should lead to the discovery of some relation
between reason and the moral sense), and the influence of
pleasure and pain upon our actual moral judgments.

Hume was not an intuitionist. He was far too sensible
of the fallibility of all human activities to subscribe to such
a doctrine, and for that reason he was able to set before
himself the problem involved in the nature of moral judg-

X Hume's Philosophical Works

ments much more clearly than was ever done by the
intuitionist school. That problem may be stated in some
such way as this. Moral judgment is not a matter of the
intellect alone. To seek to discover a mathematics of
morals is to ignore the importance of the non-intellectual
factors involved, and the attempt is based upon a wrong
conception of the nature of reason, and leads to hopeless
contradictions. On the other hand, it is as impossible to
make morality consist in a mere following after pleasure.
That is as inadequate to the facts. It is as misleading to
reduce the faculty of moral judgment to the feelings of
pleasure and pain as to reduce it to mere reasoning. Think-
ing and reasoning are obviously of importance in morality,
and our behaviour is affected by our feelings of pleasure
and pain. The moral sense must have some relation to
both these factors, and is not reducible to any one of them.
How then are we to conceive its nature ?

But Hume, while recognising in both ways the inde-
pendence and uniqueness of the moral sense, was much
more insistent on its distinction from reason than on its
distinction from mere pleasure and pain feeling, and in his
treatment of this second side of the problem we shall
find considerable ambiguity. The determining factors in
moraUty, according to Hume, are not understanding or
mere feeling, but passions; yet he sometimes seems to
suggest that passions are only aggregates or combinations
of feelings. Indeed his sharp separation of reason and
passion makes it very difficult for him to say anything else.

Hume's account of the place of reason in morals will be
found in Book II., Part III., Section 3, On the influencing
motives of the will. He proposes to prove " first, that
reason alone can never be a motive to any action of the
will; and secondly, that it can never oppose passion in
the direction of the will." The proof is not hard. It
follows directly from Hume's account of reason. " The
understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as it
judges from demonstration or probabiUty; as it regards
the abstract relations of our ideas, or those relations of
objects of which experience only gives us information."
There is not much difficulty about the " first species of
reasoning." As its proper province is the world of ideas,

Introduction xi

and as the will always places us in that of realities, demon-
stration and volition seem upon that account to be totally-
removed from each other. It might be objected that some
inquiries whose province is, according to Hume, the
world of ideas, have yet obviously application to realities,
arithmetic for example. Hume is prepared for this objec-
tion. " It is not by themselves that mathematics have
any influence." There must be some " designed end or
purpose " which originates and guides their application.
Hence the conclusion that " abstract or demonstrative
reasoning never influences any of our actions, but only as
it directs our judgment concerning causes and effects."
In other words, it is only concerned with discovering means
to an end otherwise determined. The same holds of the
second species of reasoning. " It is obvious, that when we
have the prospect of pain or pleasure from any object, we
feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, and
are carried to avoid or embrace what will give us this
uneasiness or satisfaction. It is also obvious that this
emotion rests not here, but, making us cast our view on
every side, comprehends whatever objects are connected
with its original one by the relation of cause and effect.
Here, then, reasoning takes place to discover this relation,
and according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive
a subsequent variation. But it is evident, in this case,
that the impulse arises not from reason, but is only directed
by it. It is from this prospect of pain or pleasure that the
aversion or propensity arises towards any object."

Hume's second thesis, that reason can never oppose
passion, follows from the arguments which support the first.
" It is impossible reason could have the effect of preventing
volition, but by giving an impulse in a contrary direction
to our passions: and that impulse, had it operated alone,
would have been ample to produce vohtion. Nothing can
oppose or retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary
impulse; and if this contrary impulse ever arises from
reason, that latter faculty must have an original influence
on the will, and must be able to cause, as well as hinder,
any act of volition." But that we have already seen to be
impossible. The argument is thus concluded: " We speak
not strictly and philosophically when we talk of the combat

xii Hume's Philosophical Works

of passion and reason. Reason is, and ought only to be,
the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any-
other office than to serve and obey them."

We are here following a line of argument with which the
first book has already made us familiar. In both logic and
morals Hume begins by identifying reason with calculation
according to definite rules. As in Book I., he points out that
such calculation proceeds on assumptions which calculation
cannot itself prove, that the fundamental principles of
demonstration are not demonstrable, so here he points out
that reason as the calculation of means to an end, implies
an end got elsewhere than from reason. In both cases
Hume is perfectly right in thus limiting the sphere of
reason in his sense of the term. That demonstration
implies undemonstrable principles was pointed out by
Aristotle. It is equally clear that the two species of
reasoning which Hume here describes are only of importance
in morals in the calculation of means, and can never
demonstrate the desirability of the ends they serve. But
we must ask whether Hume is justified in his narrow
conception of reason, or to put the question in another
way, whether the factors which obviously do influence
conduct can be described as irrational or even non-rational.

We have noticed a similar difficulty in Hume's logical
inquiries. Beginning with a narrow conception of reason,
he seems to assume that whatever may be shown not to be
the work of reason so conceived must be ascribed to a
thoroughly irrational factor, the mere mechanical play of
associated ideas. He is continually suggesting without
ever explicitly asserting such a mechanical view of thought,
which would reduce all thinking to mere association, and
allow between ideas only mechanical distinctions such as
distinctions of greater or less force. Yet in particular
instances he acknowledges the impossibilities of this theory.
The difference between memory and perception is not
merely one of liveliness: causation is not merely a case of
association. Feeliag becomes for Hume, as he lays more
work upon it, less and less identical with irrational impulse
and more and more like reason as Aristotle conceived it.

Now in the analysis of moral conduct the refutation of
the claims of reason suggests a mechanical theory which

Introduction xiii

plays much the same part in morals .i,s the theory of the
association of ideas does in logic: the theory that moral
activity may be regarded as the result of the merely
automatic working and collision of feelings of pleasure
and pain. The later English empiricists worked out
Hume's suggestions on both these points into a hard and
fast mechanical theory with none of his recognition of
limitations. Thinking became in their view nothing but
association, moral action nothing but the mechanical
influence of pleasure and pain. Now Hume seems some-
times to lean towards this view. We have already noticed
that in Book II., Part III., Section i, he argues for the
necessity of the will. Most followers of Hume in his
account of causation use his sceptical results to argue
against the necessity of material law, and to suggest that
the movements of material things display or may display
as much spontaneity or caprice as it is assumed are displayed,
by the operation of the mind. Hume reverses the argu-
ment. The actions of the mind cannot be fully understood
or anticipated, yet they display a certain regularity. The
same holds good, according to Hume's account of causa-
tion, of material things. But " it is universally acknow-
ledged that the operations of external bodies are necessary ;
and that, in the communication of their motion, in their
attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are not the least
traces of indifference or liberty." Therefore there is no
reason for supposing that the operations of the mind are
not similarly determined. Now for a philosopher whose
psychology is as atomistic as is Hume's, the most natural
way to conceive of necessarily determined actions is, as we
suggested, to regard them as the outcome of feelings of
pleasure and pain. Hume mentions in Book II., Part I.,
Section 7, this hypothesis that " all morality is founded on
the pain and pleasure which arises from the prospect of any
loss or advantage that may result from our own characters,
or from those of others." The very essence of virtue,
according to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and
that of vice to give pain. But he does not himself accept
it, and when we come to his statement of his own position,
we find that while he makes moral judgments depend upon
pleasure and pain, the pleasure and pain are of a peculiar

xiv Hume's Philosophical Works

kind. " The distinguishing impressions by which moral
good or evU is known, are nothing but particular pains or
pleasures. An action, or sentiment, or character, is
virtuous or vicious ; why ? because its view causes a
pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a
reason, therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we suffi-
ciently explain the vice or virtue. To have the sense of
virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a particular
kind from the contemplation of a character. The very
feeling constitutes our praise and admiration." He goes on
in the same section to enforce the distinction implied in
the term " particular." " Nor is every sentiment of
pleasure or pain which arises from characters and actions,
of that peculiar kind which makes us praise or condemn.
The good qualities of an enemy are hurtful to us, but may
stUl command our esteem and respect. It is only when a
character is considered in general, without reference to
our- particular interest, that it causes such a feelkig or
sentiment ac denomirates it morally good or evU. It is
true, these sentiments from interest and morals are apt to
be confounded, and naturally run into one another. But
this hinders, not but that the sentiments are in themselves
distinct, and a man of temper and judgment may preserve
himself from these illusions."

When Hume in this passage marks as a characteristic of
moral judgment that it considers character in general
" without reference to our particular interest," he is not
far removed from the position of so strong a rationalist as
Kant, who says that practical reason must be independent
of all particular interests. This power of acting on general
grounds has indeed usually been identified with reason.
Hume prefers to make it the work of sympathy. We can
distinguish between our immediate interests and what we
think good, not, according to him, because we can act
independently of all interests, but because we can and do
make our neighbour's interests our own. No human being
acts as though he were an isolated individual, this is not
because men overcome their selfish interests by reason, but
because they cannot feel independently , in other words,
because they are naturally social. " No quality of human
nature is more remarkable," says Hume (Book II., Part I.,

Introduction xv

Section ii), "both in itself and in its consequences, than
that propensity we have to sympathise with others, and to
receive by communication their incHnations and senti-
ments, however different from or contrary to their own.
This is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly
embrace every opinion proposed to them, but also in men
of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very
difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposi-
tion to that of their friends and daily companions." It is
through this that man can act as a member of a society and
is capable of rising above his immediate interests. By
cultivating this faculty we may learn to take long views,
to follow general principles rather than yield to the dictates
of the moment. When we come to Hume's political theory
we find that he bases society on " the selfishness and
confined generosity of men." In society we extend and
strengthen the limited sympathy with which we are
originally endowed until we become capable of acting- as
rational members of a rational society. Yet Hum . will
recognise reason in no stage of this prcc'i'ss. " Tlia't reason
which is able to oppose our passions," he says, " is nothing
but a general calm determination of the passions founded
on a distant view or reflection."

Whether the word reason ought to be confined, as Hume
assumes, to calculation or mental operations in which
emotional elements have no part, may seem largely a
matter of language, but it becomes more than tliis if the
word which he would substitute for what is ordinarily
called reason in morals implies a sharp division between
the intellectual and moral parts of our nature. If Plato,
Aristotle, and Kant, by their use of the term reason in
morals, tended to over-intellectualise conduct, when Hume
instead talks of feeling he emphasises too much the element
of impulse and desire in moral life. But in his distinction
between feeling and the passions and his conception of the
latter as capable of organisation and system, there is the
suggestion for a moral theory which should do justice to
both the intellectual and emotional aspects of moral conduct.

A. D. LINDSAY.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

A Treatise of Human Nature: being an attempt to introduce the
experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects. Books i. and
ii., 1739; iii., 1740; new edition, 1817; edited by L. A. Selby Big^e,
1888, 1896; Essays, Moral and Political, vol. i., 1741, 1742; vol. li.,
1742; with corrections and additions, 1748; Three Essays (Of Natural
Character, The Original Contract, Passive Obedience), 1748; Philo-
sophical Essays concerning the Human Understanding (afterwards
published as an Inquiry concerning Human Understanding), 1748;
with corrections and additions, 1750, 1861 ; An Inquiry concerning the
Principles of Morals, 1751. This and the previous work published
with an introduction by L. A. Selby Bigge, 1894; 2nd edition, 1902;
Political Discourses, 1752; Essays and Treatises on several subjects
(including all earlier works except the Treatise), 4 vols. 1753-4; 2nd
edition, 1758; and many subsequent editions; History of England
(see below) ; Four Dissertations (The Natural History of Religion, the
Passions, Tragedy, The Standard of Taste), 1757; Two Essays (on
Suicide and the Immortality of the Soul), 1777; Autobiography, 1777;
Dialogues concerning Natural Religion, 1779, 1875 ; reprinted with
an introduction by Bruce M'Ewen^ 1907.

History of England, vols. i. and li. (House of Stuart), 1754-7; House
of Tudor, 2 vols., 1759; Julius Caesar to Henry VII., 1762; History
from Invasion of Julius Caesar to 1688, 2 vols., 1762 ; 8 vols., 1763, 1770,
^773, 1778 (with author's final corrections and autobiography). Many
later editions; reprint of 1786 in Lubbock's Hundred Best Books, 1894.
With continuations by Smollett and Barlow, 22 vols., 1793-5; further
continuations by H. Clarke, 4 vols., 1832; by T. S. Hughes, 21 vols.,
1834-6; by H. £i.L"ijbmg, 20 vols., 1838; by W. C. Stafford, 4 vols.,
1868-71; bv Stafford and H. W. Dulcken, 1889-91. Abridged edition,
1859; by W. Smith, 1870; by J. S. Brewer (continued to 1878), 1880,
1884.

Works: Philosophical works, 4 vols., 1826, 1854; edition by T. H.
Green and T. H. Grose, 4 vols., 1895-8; In World's Classics, 1903, etc.;
Essays, Moral, Politicad, and Litercury (with Memoir), 1862; abridged
edition, 1870, 1875; in Lubbock's Hundred Best Books, 1894; Treatise
on Morals, and selections from the Treatise of the Passions, with
Introduction by J. H. Hyslop (Ethical Series), 1894; Essays, with
biographical sketch, by C. T. Gorham, 1906; Essays, Universal
Library, 1906.

Letters: Private Correspondence, 1761-76, 1820; Original

Letters relating to J. J. Rousseau, 1799, 1820; Letters, 1742-61,

edited bv T. Murray, 1841 ; Letters to W. Strahan, edited by G.
Birkbeck HiU, 1888.

Life, etc.: Autobiography, 1777; Supplement to Autobiography,
1777; W. Smellie, Literary and Characteristical Lives of . . . Hume, etc.
1800; T. E. Ritchie, Account of the Life and Writings of David Hume,
1807; J. H. Burton, Life and Correspondence of David Hume, 2 vols.,
1846; an Essay, biographical and critical, i860; Huxley (Men of
Letters), 1878; Knight (Blackwood's Philosophical Classics), 1886; H.
Calderwood (Famous Scot Series), 1898; J. Orr, David Hume and his
Influence on Philosophy and Theology (World's Epoch Makers), 1903;
C. Ruie, Materialism as a Philosophical Conception of the Universe,
or Hume vindicated, etc., 1905; J. Rickaby, Free Will and Four
English Philosophers, 1906; C. J. W. Francken, David Hume, 1907.

xvi

CONTENTS

TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE

BOOK II— OF THE PASSIONS

PART I

OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY

Division of the Subject ......

Of Pride and Humility, their Objects and Causes

Whence these Objects and Causes are derived .

Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas

Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and Humility

Limitations of this System .....

Of Vice and Virtue ......

Of Beauty and Deformity .....

Of external Advantages and Disadvantages

Of Poverty and Riches ......

Of the Love of Fame ......

Of Pride and Humility of Animals ....

PAGE

3

5
7

lO
12

17

21

24
28

34
40

47

PART II

OF LOVE AND HATRED

Of the Objects and Causes of Love and Hatred
Experiments to confirm this System
Difficulties solved ....

Of the Love of Relations

Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful

Of Benevolence and Anger

Of Compassion .....

Of Malice and Envy ....

Of the mixture of Benevolence and Anger with Compassion and
Malice ......

Of Respect and Contempt

Of the Amorous Passion, or Love betwixt the Sexes

Of Love and Hatred of Animals

xvii

51
54
67
71
76
83
86
89

97
104
108
III

xviii Hume's Philosophical Works

PART III

OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS

Of Liberty and Necessity

Tlie same Subject continued .

Of the Influencing Motives of the Will

Of the Causes of the Violent Passions

Of the Effects of Custom

Of the Influence of the Imagination on the Passions

Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time

The same Subject continued ....

Of the Direct Passions .....

Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth .

PAGE

113
120

125
130

133
135
138
142
147
156

BOOK III— OF MORALS

PART I

OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL

Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason
Moral Distinctions derived from a Moral Sense

165
178

PART II

OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE

Justice, whether a natural or artificial Virtue?

Of the Origin of Justice and Property

Of the Rules which determine Property .

Of the Transference of Property by Consent

Of the Obligation of Promises ....

Some further Reflections concerning Justice and Injustice

Of the Origin of Government

Of the Source of Allegiance .

Of the Measures of Allegiance

Of the Objects of Allegiance .

Of the Laws of Nations

Of Chastity and Modesty

184
190
206
217
219
228

235
240

249
253
265
267

PART III

OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES

Of the Origin of the Natural Virtues and Vices

Of Greatness of Mind ......

Of Goodness and Benevolence ....

Of Natural Abilities ......

Some further Reflections concerning the Natural Virtues
Conclusion of this Book .....

271
287
296
300
306
310

Appendix to the Treatise of Human Nature

313

A TREATISE OF
HUMAN NATURE

BOOK II
OF THE PASSIONS

II

PART I

OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY

SECTION I

DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT

As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into
impressions and ideas, so the impressions admit of another
division into original and secondary. This division of the
impressions is the same with that which I formerly made
use of ^ when I distinguished them into impressions of sen-
sation and reflection. Original impressions^ or impressions
of sensation, are such as, without any antecedent perception,
arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from
the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to the
external organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions, are
such as proceed from some of these original ones, either
immediately, or by the interposition of its idea. Of the first
kind are all the impressions of the senses, and all bodily pains
and pleasures: of the second are the passions, and other
emotions resembling them.

It is certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin
somewhere; and that since the impressions precede their
correspondent ideas, there must be some impressions which,
without any introduction, make their appearance in the soul.
As these depend upon natural and physical causes, the
examination of them would lead me too far from my present
subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy.
For this reason I shall here confine myself to those other
impressions, which I have called secondary and reflective,
as arising either from the original impressions, or from their
ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures are the source of many
passions, both when felt and considered by the mind; but
arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you
1 Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.

4 Hume's Philosophical Works

please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception.
A fit of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief,
hope, fear; but is not derived immediately from any affection
or idea.

The reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds,
viz. the calm and the violent. Of the first kind is the sense
of beauty and deformity in action, composition, and external
objects. Of the second are the passions of love and hatred,
grief and joy, pride and humility. This division is far from
being exact. The raptures of poetry and music frequently
rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions,
properly called passions, may decaj^ into so soft an emotion,
as to become in a manner imperceptible. But as, in general,
the passions are more violent than the emotions arising
from beauty and defonnity, these impressions have been
commonly distinguished from each other. The subject of
the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here
take advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that I
may proceed with the greater order; and, having said all
I thought necessary concerning our ideas, shall now explain
those violent emotions or passions, their nature, origin,
causes, and effects.

When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a
division of them into direct and indirect. By direct passions
I understand such as arise immediately from good or evil,
from pain or pleasure. By indirect, such as proceed from
the same principles, but by the conjunction of other qualities.
This distinction I cannot at present justify or explain any
further. I can only observe in general, that under the
indirect passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition,
vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with
their dependents. And under the direct passions, desire,
aversion, grief, joy, hope, fear, despair, and security. I
shall begin with the former.

Of the Passions

SECTION II

OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES

The passions of pride and humility being simple and uniform
impressions, it is impossible we can ever, by a multitude of
words, give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the
passions. The utmost we can pretend to is a description of
them, by an enumeration of such circumstances as attend
them : but as these words, pride and humility, are of general
use, and the impressions they represent the most common
of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea
of them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason,
not to lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately
enter upon the examination of these passions.

It is evident that pride and humility, though directly
contrary, have yet the same object. This object is self, or
that succession of related ideas and impressions, of which we
have an intimate memory and consciousness. Here the view
always fixes when we are actuated by either of these passions.
According as our idea of ourself is more or less advantageous,
we feel either of those opposite affections, and are elated
by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects
may be comprehended by the mind, they are always con-
sidered with a view to ourselves; otherwise they would
never be able either to excite these passions, or produce the
smallest increase or diminution of them. When self enters
not into the consideration, there is no room either for pride
or humility.

But though that connected succession of perceptions,
which we call self, be always the object of these two passions,
it is impossible it can be their cause, or be sufficient alone to
excite them. For as these passions are directly contrary,
and have the same object in common; were their object also
their cause, it could never produce any degree of the one
passion, but at the same time it must excite an equal degree
of the other; which opposition and contrariety must destroy

6 Hume's Philosophical Works

both. It is impossible a man can at the same time be both
proud and humble; and where he has different reasons for
these passions, as frequently happens, the passions either
take place alternately, or, if they encounter, the one annihi-
lates the other, as far as its strength goes, and the remainder
only of that which is superior, continues to operate upon the
mind. But in the present case neither of the passions could
ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view
only of ourself which excited them, that being perfectly
indifferent to either, must produce both in the very same
proportion; or, in other words, can produce neither. To
excite any passion, and at the same time raise an equal share
of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was done, and
must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent.

We must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause
and the object of these passions; betwixt that idea which
excites them, and that to which they direct their view when
excited. Pride and humility, being once raised, immediately
turn our attention to ourself, and regard that as their ultimate
and final object; but there is something further requisite
in order to raise them : something, which is peculiar to one of
the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree.
The first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause
or productive principle. This excites the passion connected
with it; and that passion, when excited, turns our view to
another idea, which is that of self. Here then is a passion
placed betwixt two ideas, of which the one produces it,
and the other is produced by it. The first idea therefore
represents the cause, the second the object of the passion.

To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may
observe, that their most obvious and remarkable property
is the vast variety of subjects on which they may be placed.
Every valuable quality of the mind, whether of the imagina-
tion, judgment, memory, or disposition; wit, good sense,
learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are the causes
of pride, and their opposites of humility. Nor are these
passions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the
body likewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength,
agility, good mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and of
his dexterity in any manual business or manufacture. But
this is not all. The passion, looking further, comprehends

Of the Passions 7

whatever objects are in the least allied or related to us. Our
country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens,
horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause
either of pride or of humility.

From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary
we should make a new distinction in the causes of the passion,
betwixt that quality which operates, and the subject on which
it is placed. A man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house
which belongs to him, or which he has himself built and
contrived. Here the object of the passion is himself, and the
cause is the beautiful house : which cause again is subdivided
into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the
passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. The
quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered
as his property or contrivance. Both these parts are essential,
nor is the distinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, con-
sidered merely as such, unless placed upon something related
to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the strongest
relation alone, without beauty, or something else in its place,
has as Uttle influence on that passion. Since, therefore, these
two particulars are easily separated, and there is a necessity
for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we ought
to consider them as component parts of the cause ; and infix
in our minds an exact idea of this distinction.

SECTION III

WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED

Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt
the object of the passions and their cause, and to distinguish
in the cause the quality, which operates on the passions,
from the subject, in which it inheres; we now proceed to
examine what determines each of them to be what it is, and
assigns such a particular object and quality, and subject to
these affections. By this means we shall fully understand
the origin of pride and humility.

It is evident, in the first place, that these passions are
determined to have self for their object, not only by a natural,

8 Hume's Philosophical Works

but also by an original property. No one can doubt but this
property is natural, from the constancy and steadiness of its
operations. It is always self, which is the object of pride
and humility; and whenever the passions look beyond, it
is still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or object
otherwise have any influence upon us.

That this proceeds from an original quality or primary
impulse, will likewise appear evident, if we consider that it is
the distinguishing characteristic of these passions. Unless
nature had given some original qualities to the mind, it could
never have any secondary ones ; because in that case it would
have no foundation for action, nor could ever begin to exert
itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as
original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and
can be resolved into no other : and such is the quality which
determines the object of pride and humility.

We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the
causes that produce the passion be as natural as the object
to which it is directed, and whether all that vast variety
proceeds from caprice, or from the constitution of the mind.
This doubt we shall soon remove, if we cast our eye upon
human nature, and consider that, in all nations and ages, the
same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and that
upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly
what will either increase or diminish his passions of this kind.
If there be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from
nothing but a difference in the tempers and complexions of
men, and is, besides, very inconsiderable. Can we imagine
it possible, that while human nature remains the same, men
will ever become entirely indifferent to their power, riches,
beauty, or personal merit, and that their pride and vanity
will not be affected by these advantages ?

But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly
natural, we shall find, upon examination, that they are not
original, and that it is utterly impossible they should each of
them be adapted to these passions by a particular provision
and primary constitution of nature. Beside their prodigious
number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise partly
from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from
the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses,
furniture, clothes. Caprice determines their particular

Of the Passions 9

kinds and qualities. And good fortune frequently con-
tributes to all this, by discovering the effects that result from
the different mixtures and combinations of bodies. It is
absurd therefore to imagine that each of these was foreseen
and provided for by nature, and that every new production
of art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting
itself to the passion by partaking of some general quality
that naturally operates on the mind, is itself the object of an
original principle, which till then lay concealed in the soul,
and is only by accident at last brought to light. Thus the
first mechanic that invented a fine scrutoire, produced pride
in him who became possessed of it, by principles different
from those which made him proud of handsome chairs and
tables. As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must
conclude, that each cause of pride and humility is not
adapted to the passions by a distinct original quality, but
that there are some one or more circumstances common to all
of them, on which their efficacy depends.

Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the
effects be many, the principles from which they arise are
commonly but few and simple, and that it is the sign of an
unskilful naturalist to have recourse to a different quality,
in order to explain every different operation. How much
more must this be true with regard to the human mind,
which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought
incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles,
as would be necessary to excite the passions of pride and
humility, were each distinct cause adapted to the passion
by a distinct set of principles !

Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition
as natural, with regard to astronomy before the time of
Copernicus. The ancients, though sensible of that maxim,
that Nature does nothing in vain, contrived such intricate
systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent with true
philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple
and natural. To invent without scruple a new principle
to every new phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old;
to overload our hypothesis with a variety of this kind, are
certain proofs that none of these principles is the just one,
and that we only desire, by a number of falsehoods, to cover
our ignorance of the truth.

10 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION IV

OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS

Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle
or difficulty, that it is from natural principles this variety
of causes excite pride and humility, and that it is not by a
different principle each different cause is adapted to its passion.
We shall now proceed to inquire how we may reduce these
principles to a lesser number, and find among the causes
something common on which their influence depends.

In order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of
human nature, which, though they have a mighty influence
on every operation both of the understanding and passions,
are not commonly much insisted on by philosophers. The
first of these is the association of ideas, which I have so often
observed and explained. It is impossible for the mind to
fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time ;
nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy.
But however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not"
entirely without rule and method in their changes. The
rule by which they proceed, is to pass from one object to
what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced by it. When
one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by
these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more
facility by means of that introduction.

The second property I shall observe in the human mind
is a like association of impressions. All resembling impres-
sions are connected together, and no sooner one arises than
the rest immediately follow. Grief and disappointment
give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice
to grief again, until the whole circle be completed. In like
manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws
itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other
resembling affections. It is difficult for the mind, when
actuated by any passion, to confine itself to that passion
alone, without any change or variation. Human nature is
too inconstant to admit of any such regularity. Changeable-
ness is essential to it. And to what can it so naturally change

Of the Passions 1 1

as to affections or emotions, which are suitable to the temper,
and agree with that set of passions which then prevail? It
is evident then there is an attraction or association among
impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remark-
able difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance,
contiguity, and causation, and impressions only by resem-
blance.

In the third place, it is observable of these two kinds of
association, that they very much assist and forward each
other, and that the transition is more easily made where they
both concur in the same object. Thus, a man who, by an
injury from another, is very much discomposed and ruffled
in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects of discontent,
impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions, especially if he
can discover these subjects in or near the person who was the
cause of his first passion. Those principles which forward
the transition of ideas here concur with those which operate
on the passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on
the mind a double impulse. The new passion, therefore,
must arise with so much greater violence, and the transition
to it must be rendered so much more easy and natural.

Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant
writer, who expresses himself in the following manner: " As
the fancy delights in everything that is great, strange, or
beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these
perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving
a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. Thus,
any continued sound, as the music of birds or a fall of waters,
awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes
him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that
he before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells
or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the imagination,
and make even the colours and verdure of the landscape
appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses
recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than
when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours
of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another,
and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the
situation." In this phenomenon we may remark the associa-
tion both of impressions and ideas, as well as the mutual
assistance they lend each other.

12 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION V

OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE
AND HUMILITY

These prmciples being established on unquestionable ex-
perience, I begin to consider how we shall apply them, by
revolving over all the causes of pride and humility, whether
these causes be regarded as the qualities that operate, or as
the subjects on which the qualities are placed. In examining
these qualities, I immediately find many of them to concur
in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, independent
of those affections which I here endeavour to explain. Thus
the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance,
gives pleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as
well as humility. A magnificent feast delights us, and a
sordid one displeases. What I discover to be true in some
instances, I stippose to be so in all, and take it for granted at
present, without any further proof, that every cause of pride,
by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate pleasure, and of
humility a separate uneasiness.

Again, in considering the subjects, to which these qualities
adhere, I make a new supposition, which also appears probable
from many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are
either parts of ourselves, or something nearly related to us.
Thus the good and bad qualities of our actions and manners
constitute virtue and vice, and determine our personal
character, than which nothing operates more strongly on
these passions. In like manner, it is the beauty or deformity
of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which we
are rendered either vain or humble. The same qualities,
when transferred to subjects, which bear us no relation,
influence not in the smallest degree either of these affections.

Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the
causes of these affections, viz. that the qualities produce a
separate pain or pleasure, and that the subjects, on which the
qualities are placed, are related to self; I proceed to examine
the passions themselves, in order to find something in them
correspondent to the supposed properties of their causes.

Of the Passions 13

First, I find that the peculiar object of pride and humility is
determined by an original and natural instinct, and that it is
absolutely impossible, from the primary constitution of the
mind, that these passions should ever look beyond self, or
that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each
of us is intimately conscious. Here at last the view always
restSj when we are actuated by either of these passions ; nor
can we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sight of this
object. For this I pretend not to give any reason; but
consider such a peculiar direction of the thought as an
original quality.

The second quality which I discover in these passions, and
which I likewise consider as an original quality, is their
sensations, or the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul,
and which constitute their very being and essence. Thus,
pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility a painful; and
upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in reality
no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling convinces
us; and beyond our feeling, it is here in vain to reason or
dispute.

If I compare therefore these two established properties of
the passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensa-
tion, which is either pleasant or painful, to the two proposed
properties of the causes, viz. their relation to self, and their
tendency to produce a pain or pleasure independent of the
passion; I immediately find, that taking these suppositions
to be just, the true system breaks in upon me with an irre-
sistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, is
related to the object, which nature has attributed to the
passion; the sensation, which the cause separately produces,,
is related to the sensation of the passion: from this double
relation of ideas and impressions the passion is derived.
The one idea is easily converted into its correlative ; and the
one impression into that which resembles and corresponds to
it: with how much greater facility must this transition be
made, where these movements mutually assist each other,
and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations
both of its impressions and ideas !

That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose
that nature has given to the organs of the human mind a
certain disposition fitted to produce a peculiar impression

14 Hume's Philosophical Works

or emotion, which we call pride : to this emotion she has
assigned a certain idea, viz. that of self, which it never fails
to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily conceived.
We have many instances of such a situation of affairs. The
nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed as in certain
circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind :
the sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the
idea of those peculiar objects, which are suitable to each
appetite. These two circumstances are united in pride.
The organs are so disposed as to produce the passion; and
the passion, after its production, naturally produces a certain
idea. All this needs no proof. It is evident we never
should be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposi-
tion of mind proper for it; and it is as evident, that the
passion always turns our view to ourselves, and makes us
think of our own qualities and circumstances.

This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked,
Whether nature produces the passion immediately of herself, or
whether she must be assisted by the cooperation of other causes ?
For it is observable, that in this particular her conduct is
different in the different passions and sensations. The
palate must be excited by an external object, in order to
produce any relish: but hunger arises internally, without
the concurrence of any external object. But however the
case may stand with other passions and impressions, it is
certain that pride requires the assistance of some foreign
object, and that the organs which produce it exert not
themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original internal
movement. For, first, daily experience convinces us, that
pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes
when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in
bodily accomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune.
Secondly, it is evident pride would be perpetual if it arose
immediately from nature, since the object is always the same,
and there is no disposition of body pecuHar to pride, as there
is to thirst and hunger. Thirdly, humility is in the very same
situation with pride; and therefore either must, upon this
supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the con-
trary passion from the very first moment; so that none of
them could ever make its appearance. Upon the whole, we
may rest satisfied with the foregoing conclusion, that pride

Of the Passions i 5

must have a cause as well as an object^ and that the one has
no influence without the other.

The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and
find what it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets
those organs in action which are naturally fitted to produce
that emotion. Upon my consulting experience, in order to
resolve this difficulty, I immediately find a hundred different
causes that produce pride; and upon examining these causes,
I suppose, what at first I perceive to be probable, that all of
them concur in two circumstances, which are, that of them-
selves they produce an impression allied to the passion, and
are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion.
When I consider after this the nature of relation, and its
effects both on the passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt
upon these suppositions, that it is the very principle which
gives rise to pride, and bestows motion on those organs,
which, being naturally disposed to produce that affection,
require only a first impulse or beginning to their action.
Anything that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to
self, excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and
has self for its object.

What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The
sensation of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable;
for which reason the separate sensation arising from the
causes must be reversed, while the relation to self continues
the same. Though pride and humility are directly contrary
in their effects and in their sensations, they have notwith-
standing the same object; so that it is requisite only to change
the relation of impressions without making any change upon
that of ideas. Accordingly, we find that a beautiful house
belonging to ourselves produces pride; and that the same
house, still belonging to ourselves, produces humility, when
by any accident its beauty is changed into deformity, and
thereby the sensation of pleasure, which corresponded to
pride, is transformed into pain, which is related to humility.
The double relation between the ideas and impressions
subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from
the one emotion to the other.

In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on
certain impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its
appearance, naturally introduces its correlative. If these

1 6 Hume's Philosophical Works

two attractions or associations of impressions and ideas concur
on the same object, they mutually assist each other, and the
transition of the affections and of the imagination is made
with the greatest ease and facility. When an idea produces
an impression, related to an impression, which is connected
with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions
must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case
be unattended with the other. It is after this manner that
the particular causes of pride and humihty are determined.
The quality which operates on the passion produces separately
an impression resembling it; the subject to which the quality
adheres is related to self, the object of the passion: no wonder
the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of a subject, does
so unavoidably give rise to the passion.

To illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by
which I have already explained the belief attending the judg-
ments which we form from causation. I have observed, that
in all judgments of this kind, there is always a present im-
pression and a related idea; and that the present impression
gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys this
vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea. Without
the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor the
spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on
its first object, and has no further consequence. There is
evidently a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our
present one of an impression and idea, that transfuse them-
selves into another impression and idea by means of their
double relation: which analogy must be allowed to be no
despicable proof of both h}^otheses.

Of the Passions 17

SECTION VI

LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM

But before we proceed further in this subject, and examine
particularly all the causes of pride and humility, it will be
proper to make some limitations to the general system, that all
agreeable objects, related to ourselves by an association oj ideas
and of impressions, produce pride, and disagreeable ones,
humility : and these limitations are derived from the very
nature of the subject.

I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to
self, the first passion that appears on this occasion is joy;
and this passion discovers itself upon a slighter relation than
pride and vain-glory. We may feel joy upon being present
at a feast, where our senses are regaled with delicacies of
every kind : but it is only the master of the feast who, beside
the same joy, has the additional passion of self-applause and
vanity. It is true, men sometimes boast of a great enter-
tainment at which they have only been present; and by so
small a relation convert their pleasure into pride : but how-
ever this must in general be owned, that joy arrives from a
more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and that many
things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able
to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason of the difference
may be explained thus. A relation is requisite to joy, in
order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any
satisfaction. But beside this, which is common to both
passions, it is requisite to pride, in order to produce a transi-
tion from one passion to another, and convert the satisfaction
into vanity. As it has a double task to perform, it must be
endowed with double force and energy. To which we may
add, that where agreeable objects bear not a very close
relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other person;
and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes,
and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.^
Here then is the first limitation we must make to our
general position, that everything related to us, which produces

1 Part II. Sect. 4.
11 B

1 8 Hume's Philosophical Works

pleasure or pain, produces likewise pride or humility. There
is not only a relation required^ but a close one^, and a closer
than is required to joy.

II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagree-
able object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to
ourselves, or at least common to us with a few persons. It
is a quality observable in human nature, and which we shall
endeavour to explain afterwards, that everything, which is
often presented, and to which we have been long accustomed,
loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little time despised and
neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from com-
parison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where
we cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt
to overlook even what is essentially good in them. These
qualities of the mind have an effect upon joy as well as pride;
and it is remarkable, that goods, which are common to all
mankind, and have become familiar to us by custom, give us
little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent kind
than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher
value. But though this circumstance operates on both these
passions, it has a much greater influence on ^•anity. We are
rejoiced for many goods, which, on account of their frequency,
give us no pride. Health, when it returns after a long
absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; but is seldom
regarded as a subject of vanity, because it is shared with such
vast numbers.

The reason why pride is so much more delicate in this
particular than joy, I take to be as follows. In order to
excite pride, there are always two objects we must contem-
plate, viz. the cause, or that object which produces pleasure;
and self, which is the real object of the passion. But joy has
only one object necessary to its production, viz. that which
gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this bear
some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to
render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object
of this passion. Since, therefore, pride has, in a manner,
two objects to which it directs our view, it follows, that where
neither of them have any singularity, the passion must be
more weakened upon that account than a passion which has
only one object. Upon comparing ourselves with others, as
we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in the least

Of the Passions 19

distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess,
we discover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two
comparisons so disadvantageous, the passion must be entirely
destroyed.

III. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful
object be very discernible and obvious, and that not only to
ourselves but to others also. This circumstance, like the two
foregoing, has an effect upon joy as well as pride. We fancy
ourselves more happy, as well as more virtuous or beautiful,
when we appear so to others ; but are still more ostentatious
of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds from
causes which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.

IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy
of the cause of these passions, and from the short duration
of its connection with ourselves. What is casual and incon-
stant gives but little joy, and less pride. We are not much
satisfied with the thing itself; and are still less apt to feel any
new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. We foresee
and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes us
little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves,
whose existence is more durable, by which means its incon-
stancy appears still greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an
excellency in ourselves from an object which is of so much
shorter duration, and attends us during so small a part of our
existence. It will be easy to comprehend the reason why
this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in pride;
since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion
as to the latter.

V. I may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement
of this system, that general rules have a great influence upon
pride and humility, as well as on all the other passions.
Hence we form a notion of different ranks of men, suitable to
the power or riches they are possessed of; and this notion we
change not upon account of any peculiarities of the health or
temper of the persons, which may deprive them of all enjoy-
ment in their possessions. This may be accounted for from
the same principles that explained the influence of general
rules on the understanding. Custom readily carries us
beyond the just bounds in our passions as well as in our
reasonings.

It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the

20 Hume's Philosophical Works

influence of general rules and maxims on the passions very
much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles,
which we shall explain in the progress of this Treatise. For
it is evident, that if a person, full grown, and of the same
nature with ourselves, were on a sudden transported into our
world, he would be very much embarrassed with every object,
and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred,
pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute
to it. The passions are often varied by ver^' inconsiderable
principles; and these do not always play with a perfect
regularity, especially on the first trial. But as custom and
practice have brought to light all these principles, and have
settled the just value of everything; this must certainly
contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide
us, by means of general established maxims, in the pro-
protions we ought to observe in preferring one object to
another. This remark may, perhaps, serve to obviate
difficulties that may arise concerning some causes which I
shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions, and which may
be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and certainly
as they are found to do.

I shall close this subject with a reflection derived from
these five limitations. This reflection is, that the persons
who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world, have
most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest;
nor the most humble always the most miserable, as may at
first sight be imagined from this system. An evil may be
real, though its cause has no relation to us: it may be real,
without being peculiar: it may be real without showing
itself to others: it may be real, without being constant:
and it may be real, without falling under the general rules.
Such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though
they have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the
most real and the most solid evils of life will be found of this
nature.

Of the Passions 21

SECTION VII

OF VICE AND VIRTUE

Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed
to examine the causes of pride and humility, and see whether
in every case we can discover the double relations by which
they operate on the passions. If we find that all these causes
are related to self, and produce a pleasure or uneasiness
separate from the passion, there will remain no further
scruple with regard to the present system. We shall princi-
pally endeavour to prove the latter point, the former being
in a manner self-evident.

To begin with vice and virtue, which are the most obvious
causes of these passions, it would be entirely foreign to my
present purpose to enter upon the controversy, which of late
years had so much excited the curiosity of the public, whether
these moral distinctions be founded on statural and original
principles, or arise from interest and education. The examina-
tion of this I reserve for the following book; and, in the mean-
time, shall endeavour to show, that my system maintains
its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a
strong proof of its solidity.

For, granting that morality had no foundation in nature,
it must still be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-
interest or the prejudices of education, produce in us a real
pain and pleasure ; and this we may observe to be strenuously
asserted by the defenders of that hypothesis. Every passion,
habit, or turn of character (say they) which has a tendency
to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight or uneasiness;
and it is from thence the approbation or disapprobation arises.
We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always
in danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us,
but cowardice lays us open to every attack: justice is the
support of society, but injustice, unless checked, would
quickly prove its ruin: humility exalts, but pride mortifies
us. For these reasons the former qualities are esteemed
virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now, since it is
granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit

2 2 Hume's Philosophical Works

or demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my
purpose.

But I go further, and observe, that this moral hypothesis
and my present system not only agree together, but also
that, allowing the former to be just, it is an absolute and
invincible proof of the latter. For if all morality be founded
on the pain or pleasure which arises from the prospect of any
loss or advantage that may result from our own characters,
or from those of others, all the eSects of morality must be
derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest,
the passion of pride and humility. The very essence of
virtue, according to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure,
and that of vice to give pain. The virtue and vice must be
part of our character, in order to excite pride or humility.
\^Tiat further proof can we desire for the double relation of
impressions and ideas?

The same unquestionable argument may be derived from
the opinion of those who maintain that morality is something
real, essential, and founded on nature. The most probable
hypothesis, which has been advanced to explain the distinc-
tion betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of moral rights
and obligations, is, that from a primary constitution of
nature, certain characters and passions, by the very view
and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner
excite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not
only inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their
very nature and essence. To approve of a character is to
feel an original delight upon its appearance. To disapprove
of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. The pain and pleasure
therefore being the primary causes of vice and virtue, must
also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently of
pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants
of that distinction.

But, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should
be allowed to be false, it is still evident that pain and pleasure,
if not the causes of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable
from them. A generous and noble character affords a
satisfaction even in the survey; and when presented to us,
though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and
delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery dis-
please from their very nature ; nor is it possible ever to reconcile

Of the Passions 23

us to these qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus,
one hypothesis of morality is an undeniable proof of the
foregoing system, and the other at worst agrees with it.

But pride and humility arise not from these qualities
alone of the mind, which, according to the vulgar systems
of ethics, have been comprehended as parts of moral duty, but
from any other that has a connection with pleasure and
uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent
of pleasing by our wit, good-humour, or any other accomplish-
ment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification
than a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. No
one has ever been able to tell what wit is, and to show why
such a system of thought must be received under that
denomination, and such another rejected. It is only by
taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed of
any other standard upon which we can form a judgment
of this kind. Now, what is this taste, from which true and
false wit in a manner receive their being, and without which
no thought can have a title to either of these denominations ?
It is plainly nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true
wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being able to
tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power
of bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very
essence of true and false wit, and consequently the cause of
that pride or humility which arises from them.

There may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed to
the style of the schools and pulpit, and having never
considered human nature in any other light, than that in
which they place it, may here be surprised to hear me talk
of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice ;
and of vice as producing humility, which they have been
taught to consider as a virtue. But not to dispute about
words, I observe, that by pride I understand that agreeable
impression, which arises in the mind, when the view either
of our virtue, beauty, riches, or power, makes us satisfied with
ourselves; and that by humility I mean the opposite impres-
sion. It is evident the former impression is not always
vicious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigid morality
allows us to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous
action ; and it is by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruit-
less remorses upon the thoughts of past villainy and baseness.

24 Hume's Philosophical Works

Let us, therefore, examine these impressions, considered
in themselves; and inquire into their causes, whether placed
on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at present
with that merit or blame which may attend them.

SECTION VIII

OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY

Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or
assent to those philosophers who regard it as something
external, it must still be allowed to be near enough connected
with us to form one of these double relations, which I have
asserted to be necessary to the causes of pride and humility.
Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of impres-
sions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance
either of these passions, according as the impression is
pleasant or uneasy. But beauty of all kinds gives us a peculiar
delight and satisfaction; as deformity produces pain, upon
whatever subject it may be placed, and whether surveyed in
an animate or inanimate object. If the beauty or deformity,
therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, this pleasure or
uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, as
having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce
a perfect transition of impressions and ideas. These opposite
sensations are related to the opposite passions. The beauty
or deformity is closely related to self, the object of both these
passions. No wonder, then, our own beauty becomes an
object of pride, and deformity of humility.

But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only
a proof of the present system, by showing that the passions
arise not in this case without all the circumstances I have
required, but may be employed as a stronger and more con-
vincing argument. If we consider all the hypotheses which
have been formed either by philosophy or common reason, to
explain the difference betwixt beauty and deformity, we
shall find that all of them resolve into this, that beauty is
such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the
primary constitution of our nature, by custom, ox by caprice,

Of the Passions 25

is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. This
is the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the
difference betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency
is to produce uneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are
not only necessary attendants of beauty and deformity, but
constitute their very essence. And, indeed, if we consider
that a great part of the beauty which we admire either in
animals or in other objects is derived from the idea of con-
venience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to
this opinion. That shape which produces strength is beauti-
ful in one animal; and that which is a sign of agility, in
another. The order and convenience of a palace are no less
essential to its beauty than its mere figure and appearance.
In like manner the rules of architecture require, that the top
of a pillar should be more slender than its base, and that
because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, which
is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the appre-
hension of danger, which is uneasy. From innumerable
instances of this kind, as well as from considering that beauty,
like wit, cannot be defined, but is discerned only by a taste
or sensation, we may conclude that beauty is nothing but a
form, which produces pleasure, as deformity is a structure of
parts which conveys pain ; and since the power of producing
pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty
and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be
derived from the sensation; and among the rest pride and
humility, which of all their effects are the most common and
remarkable.

This argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to
give greater authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose
it false for a moment, and see what will follow. It is certain,
then, that if the power of producing pleasure and pain forms
not the essence of beauty and deformity, the sensations are
at least inseparable from the qualities, and it is even difficult
to consider them apart. Now, there is nothing common to
natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of
pride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a
common effect always supposes a common cause, it is plain
that pleasure must in both cases be the real and influencing
cause of the passions. Again, there is nothing originally
different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the beauty of

26 Hume's Philosophical Works

external and foreign objects, but that the one has a near
relation to ourselves, which is wanting in the other. This
original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their
other differences, and, among the rest, of their different
influence upon the passion of pride, which is excited by the
beauty of our person, but is not affected in the least by that
of foreign and external objects. Placing then these two
conclusions together, we find they compose the preceding
system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or re-
sembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a
natural transition produces pride, and its contrary, humility.
This system, then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by
experience, though we have not yet exhausted all our argu-
ments.

It is not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride,
but also its strength and force. Strength is a kind of power,
and therefore the desire to excel in strength is to be con-
sidered as an inferior species of ambition. For this reason
the present phenomenon will be sufficiently accounted for in
explaining that passion.

Concerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may
observe, in general, that whatever in ourselves is either
useful, beautiful, or surprising, is an object of pride, and its
contrary of humility. Now, it is ob\dous that everything
useful, beautiful, or surprising, agrees in producing a separate
pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The pleasure, therefore,
with relation to self, must be the cause of the passion.

Though it should not be questioned whether beauty be not
something real, and different from the power of producing
pleasure, it can never be disputed, that, as surprise is nothing
but a pleasure arising from novelty, it is not, properly speak-
ing, a quality in any object, but merely a passion or impres-
sion in the soul. It must therefore be from that impression
that pride by a natural transition arises. And it arises so
naturally, that there is nothing in us, or belonging to us, which
produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that
other passion. Thus, we are vain of the surprising adven-
tures we have met with, the escapes we have made, and
dangers we have been exposed to. Hence the origin of
vulgar lying; where men, without any interest, and merely
out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events.

Of the Passions 27

which are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at
least no connection with themselves. Their fruitful inven-
tion supplies them with a variety of adventures ; and where
that talent is wanting, they appropriate such as belong to
others, in order to satisfy their vanity.

In this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments,
which, if we compare them together, according to the known
rules, by which we judge of cause and effect in anatomy,
natural philosphy, and other sciences, will be an undeniable
argument for that influence of the double relations above
mentioned. By one of these experiments we find, that an
object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure;
and that because the quality by which it produces pride, is
in reality nothing but the power of producing pleasure. By
the other experiment we find, that the pleasure produces the
pride by a transition along related ideas; because when we
cut off that relation, the passion is immediately destroyed.
A surprising adventure, in which we have been ourselves
engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride :
but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure,
yet, for want of this relation of ideas, never excite that
passion. What further proof can be desired for the present
system ?

There is only one objection to this system with regard to
our body; which is, that though nothing be more agreeable
than health, and more painful than sickness, yet commonly
men are neither proud of the one, nor mortified with the
other. This will easily be accounted for, if we consider the
second and fourth limitations proposed to our general system.
It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or
humility, if it has not something peculiar to ourself ; as also,
that every cause of that passion must be in some measure
constant, and hold some proportion to the duration of ourself,
which is its object. Now, as health and sickness vary
incessantly to all men, and there is none who is solely or
certainly fixed in either, these accidental blessings and
calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are never
considered as connected with our being and existence. And
that this account is just, appears hence, that wherever a
malady of any kind is so rooted in our constitution that we
no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment

28 Hume's Philosophical Works

it becomes an object of humility; as is evident in old men,
whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration of their
age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as possible, to
conceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gout;
nor do they ever confess them without reluctance and
uneasiness. And though young men are not ashamed of
every headache or cold they fall into, yet no topic is so
proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a
mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every
moment of our lives subject to such infirmities. This suffi-
ciently proves that bodily pain and sickness are in themselves
proper causes of humility; though the custom of estimating
everj'thing by comparison more than by its intrinsic worth
and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we find
to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of
our merit and character independent of them.

We are ashamed of such maladies as aftect others, and are
either dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy,
because it gives a horror to every one present; of the itch,
because it is infectious; of the king's evil, because it commonly
goes to posterity. Men always consider the sentiments of
others in their judgment of themselves. This has evidently
appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will appear
still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards.

SECTION IX

OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES

But though pride and humility have the qualities of our
mind and body, that is self, for their natural and more
immediate causes, we find by experience that there are many
other objects which produce these affections, and that the
primary one is, in some measure, obscured and lost by the
multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We. found a vanity
upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal
merit and accomplisfjnents; and though these external
advantages be in themselves widely distant from thought
or a person, yet they considerably influence even a passion.

Of the Passions 29

which is directed to that as its ultimate object. This happens
when external objects acquire any particular relation to
ourselves, and are associated or connected with us. A
beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desert, and indeed
anything that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no
manner of influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary
qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever degree of
surprise and admiration it may naturally occasion. It must
be some way associated with us in order to touch our pride.
Its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves; and
the transition from the one to the other must be easy and
natural.

But here it is remarkable, that though the relation of
resemblance operates upon the mind in the same manner as
contiguity and causation, in conveying us from one idea to
another, yet it is seldom a foundation either of pride or of
humility. If we resemble a person in any of the valuable
parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the
quality in which we resemble him; and this quality we
always choose to survey directly in ourselves, rather than by
reflection in another person, when we would found upon it
any degree of vanity. So that though a likeness may occa-
sionally produce that passion, by suggesting a more advan-
tageous idea of ourselves, it is there the view fixes at last, and
the passion finds its ultimate and final cause.

There are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in
resembling a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or
other minute circumstances, that contribute not in any
degree to his reputation; but it must be confessed that this
extends not very far, nor is of any considerable moment in
these affections. For this I assign the following reason.
We can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles any
person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities,
which give us a respect and veneration for him. These
qualities, then, are, properly speaking, the causes of our
vanity, by means of their relation to ourselves. Now, after
what manner are they related to ourselves ? They are parts
of the person we value, and, consequently, connected with
these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him.
These trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in
us; and these qualities in us, being parts, are connected

30 Hume's Philosophical Works

with the whole; and, by that means, form a chain of several
links betwixt ourselves and the shining qualities of the
person we resemble. But, besides that this multitude of
relations must weaken the connection, it is evident the mind,
in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must,
by that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the
latter, and be, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison
and resemblance.

The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation,
betwixt the cause and object of pride and humiUty, is alone
requisite to give rise to these passions; and these relations
are nothing else but qualities, by which the imagination is
conveyed from one idea to another. Now, let us consider
what effect these can possibly have upon the mind, and by
what means they become so requisite to the production of
the passions. It is evident that the association of ideas
operates in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are
scarce sensible of it, and discover it more by its effects than
by any immediate feeling or perception. It produces no
emotion, and gives rise to no new impression of any kind,
but only modifies those ideas of which the mind was formerly
possessed, and which it could recall upon occasion. From
this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may
conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is
not alone sufficient to give rise to any passion.

It is evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion,
either of pride or humility, upon the appearance of a related
object, there is, beside the relation or transition of thought,
an emotion, or original impression, produced by some other
principle. The question is, whether the emotion first pro-
duced be the passion itself, or some other impression related
to it. This question we cannot be long in deciding. For,
besides all the other arguments with which this subject
abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas,
which experience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to
the production of the passion, would be entirely superfluous
were it not to second a relation of affections, and faciUtate
the transition from one impression to another. If nature
produced immediately the passion of pride or humility, it
would be completed in itself, and would require no further
addition or increase from any other affection. But suppos-

Of the Passions 31

ing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility,
it is easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects
may serve, and how the two different associations of impres-
sions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may assist each
other's operation. This is not only easily conceived, but, I
will venture to affirm, it is the only manner in which we can
conceive this subject. An easy transition of ideas, which, of
itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or even
useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition
betwixt some related impressions. Not to mention that the
same object causes a greater or smaller degree of pride, not
only in proportion to the increase or decrease of its qualities,
but also to the distance or nearness of the relation, which is
a clear argument for the transition of affections along the
relation of ideas, since every change in the relation produces
a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one part of
the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a
sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions;
and is itself so evidently founded on experience, that it
would be lost time to endeavour further to prove it.

This will appear still more evidently in particular instances.
Men are vain of the beauty of their country, of their county,
of their parish. Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a
pleasure. This pleasure is related to pride. The object or
cause of this pleasure is, by the supposition, related to self,
or the object of pride. By this double relation of impressions
and ideas, a transition is made from the one impression to
the other.

Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate in
which they were born; of the fertility of their native soil;
of the goodness of the wines, fruits, or victuals, produced
by it; of the softness or force of their language, with other
particulars of that kind. These objects have plainly a
reference to the pleasure of the senses, and are originally
considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing.
How is it possible they could ever become objects of pride,
except by means of that transition above explained ?

There are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind,
and affect to depreciate their own country, in comparison of
those to which they have travelled. These persons find,
when they are at home, and surrounded with their country

3 2 Hume's Philosophical Works

men, that the strong relation betwixt them and their own
nation is shared with so many, that it is in a manner lost to
them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country,
which is formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is
augmented by their considering how few there are who have
done the same. For this reason they always admire the
beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad, above what is
at home.

Since we can be vain of a countr}-, climate, or any inani-
mate object which bears a relation to us, it is no wonder we
are vain of the quahties of those who are connected with us
by blood or friendship. Accordingly we find that the very
same qualities, which in ourselves produce pride, produce
also, in a lesser degree, the same affection when disco^•ered
in persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit, credit,
and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the
proud, as some of the most considerable sources of their
vanity. ^'Z'^-, '^/^J^;':

As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our
vanity, we desire that every one, who has any connection
with us, should likewise be possessed of them, and are
ashamed of any one that is mean or poor among our friends
and relations. For tliis reason we remove the poor as far
from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in
some distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be
our nearest relations, upon this account every one affects
to be of a good family, and to be descended from a long
succession of rich and honourable ancestors.

I have frequently observed, that those who boast of the
antiquity of their famiUes, are glad when they can join this
circumstance, that their ancestors for rhany generations
have been uninterrupted proprietors of the same portion
of land, and that their family has never changed its posses-
sions, or been transplanted into any other country or province.
I have also observed, that it is an additional subject of
vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been
transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males,
and that the honours and fortunes have never passed through
any female. Let us endeavour to explain these phenomena
by the foregoing system.

It is evident that when any one boasts of the antiquity

Of the Passions 33

of his family, the subjects of his vanity are not merely the
extent of time and number of ancestors, but also their riches
and credit, which are supposed to reflect a lustre on himself
on account of his relation to them. He first considers these
objects; is affected by them in an agreeable manner; and
then returning back to himself, through the relation of
parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by
means of the double relation of impressions and ideas. Since,
therefore, the passion depends on these relations, whatever
strengthens any of the relations must also increase the
passion, and whatever weakens the relations must diminish
the passion. Now, it is certain the identity of the possession
strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood and
kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from
one generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to
their posterity, who are both their heirs and their descendants.
By this facility the impression is transmitted more entire,
and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity.

The case is the same with the transmission of the honours
and fortunes through a succession of males without their
passing through any female. It is a quality of human
nature, which we shall consider afterwards,^ that the imagina-
tion naturally turns to whatever is important and consider-
able; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and
a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely
upon the latter. As in the society of marriage, the male
sex has the advantage above the female, the husband first
engages our attention; and whether we consider him directly,
or reach him by passing through related objects, the thought
both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, and arrives
at him with greater facility than his consort. It is easy to
see that this property must strengthen the child's relation
to the father, and weaken that to the mother. For as all
relations are nothing but a propensity to pass from one idea
to another, whatever strengthens the propensity strengthens
the relation; and as we have a stronger propensity to pass
from the idea of the children to that of the father, than from
the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard
the former relation as the closer and more considerable.
This is the reason why children commonly bear their father's

1 Part II. Sect. 2.
11 r

34 Hume's Philosophical Works

name, and are esteemed to be of nobler or baser birth, accord-
ing to his family. And though the mother should be
possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the father, as
often happens, the general rule prevails, notwithstanding
the exception, according to the doctrine above explained.
Nay, even when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when
any other reasons have such an efifect, as to make the children
rather represent the mother's family than the father's, the
general rule still retains such an efficacy, that it weakens the
relation, and makes a kind of break in the line of ancestors.
The imagination runs not along them with facility, nor is
able to transfer the honour and credit of the ancestors to
their posterity of the same name and family so readily, as
when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and
passes from father to son, or from brother to brother.

SECTION X

OF PROPERTY AND RICHES

But the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which,
of all others, produces most commonly the passion of pride,
is that of property. This relation it will be impossible for
me fully to explain before I come to treat of justice and the
other moral virtues. It is sufficient to observe on this
occasion, that property may be defined, such a relation
betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but forbids any
other, the free use and possession of it, without violating the
laws of justice and moral equity. If justice therefore be a
virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the
human mind, property may be looked upon as a particular
species of causation ; whether we consider the liberty it gives
the proprietor to operate as he pleases upon the object, or
the advantages which he reaps from it. It is the same case,
if justice, according to the system of certain philosophers,
should be esteemed an artificial and not a natural virtue.
For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply the
place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree,
the same effects. This, in the meantime, is certain, that the

Of the Passions 35

mention of the property naturally carries our thought to the
proprietor, and of the proprietor to the property; which being
a proof of a perfect relation of ideas, is all that is requisite
to our present purpose. A relation of ideas, joined to that
of impressions, always produces a transition of affections;
and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises from
an object, connected with us by property, we niay be certain
that either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction
of relations, if the foregoing system be soUd and satisfactory.
And whether it be so or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves
by the most cursory view of human life.

Everything belonging to a vain man is the best that is
anywhere to be found. His houses, equipage, furniture,
clothes, horses, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and
it is easy to observe, that from the least advantage in any
of these, he draws a new subject of pride and vanity. His
wine, if you will believe him, has a finer flavour than any
other; his cookery is more exquisite ; his table more orderly ;
his servant more expert; the air in which he lives more
healthful; the soil he cultivates more fertile ; his fruits ripen
earlier, and to greater perfection ; such a thing is remarkable
for its novelty; such another for its antiquity: this is the
workmanship of a famous artist, that belonged to such a
prince or great man ; all objects, in a word, that are useful,
beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by
means of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in
giving pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is
common to them, and therefore must be the quaUty that
produces the passion, which is their common effect. As
every new instance is a new argument, and as the instances
are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce
any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that
which I have here advanced.

If the property of anything that gives pleasure either by
its utility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a
double relation of impressions and ideas; we need not be
surprised that the power of acquiring this property should
have the same effect. Now, riches are to be considered as the
power of acquiring the property of what pleases; and it is
only in this view they have any influence on the passions.
Paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and

36 Hume's Philosophical Works

that because it may convey the power of acquiring money;
and money is not riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain
quahties of solidity, weight, and fusibility; but only as it
has a relation to the pleasures and conveniences of life.
Taking this for granted, which is in itself so evident, we may
draw from it one of the strongest arguments I have yet
employed to prove the influence of the double relations on
pride and humility.

It has been observed, in treating of the understanding,
that the distinction which we sometimes make betwixt a
power and the exercise of it, is entirely frivolous, and that
neither man nor any other being ought ever to be thought
possessed of any ability, unless it be exerted and put in action.
But though this be strictly true in a just and philosophical
way of thinking, it is certain it is not the philosophy of our
passions, but that many things operate upon them by means
of the idea and supposition of power, independent of its
actual exercise. We are pleased when we acquire an ability of
procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires
a power of giving pain. This is evident from experience;
but in order to give a just explication of the matter, and
account for this satisfaction and uneasiness, we must weigh
the following reflections.

It is evident the error of distinguishing power from its
exercise proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of
free will, which, indeed, enters very little into common life,
and has but small influence on our vulgar and popular ways
of thinking. According to that doctrine, motives deprive us
not of free will, nor take away our power of performing or
forbearing any action. But according to common notions a
man has no power, where very considerable motives lie
betwixt him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine
him to forbear what he wishes to perform. I do not think I
have fallen into my enemy's power when I see him pass me in
the streets with a sword by his side, while I am unprovided
of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil magistrate
is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as
perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when
a person acquires such an authority over me, that not only
there is no external obstacle to his actions, but also that he
may punish or reward me as he pleases without any dread of

Of the Passions

37

punishment in his turn, I then attribute a full power to him,
and consider myself as his subject or vassal.

Now, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who
has very strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any
action, and that of another who lies under no such obligation,
we shall find, according to the philosophy explained in the
foregoing book, that the only known difference betwixt them
lies in this, that in the former case we conclude, from past
experience, that the person never will perform that action,
and in the latter, that he possibly or probably will perform
it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant on many
occasions than the will of man; nor is there anything but
strong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in
pronouncing concerning any of his future actions. When we
see a person free from these motives, we suppose a possibility
either of his acting or forbearing; and though, in general, we
may conclude him to be determined by motives and causes,
yet this removes not the uncertainty of our judgment con-
cerning these causes, nor the influence of that uncertainty on
the passions. Since, therefore, we ascribe a power of per-
forming an action to every one who has no very powerful
motive to forbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may
justly be concluded, that power has always a reference to its
exercise, either actual or probable, and that we consider a
person as endowed with any abihty when we find, from past
experience, that it is probable, or at least possible, he may
exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard the real
existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality from
past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without any
further reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility
or probability of any action, as discovered by experience and
the practice of the world.

Now it is evident that, wherever a person is in such a
situation with regard to me that there is no very powerful
motive to deter him from injuring me, and consequently it
is uncertain whether he will injure me or not, I must be uneasy
in such a situation, and cannot consider the possibility or
probability of that injury without a sensible concern. The
passions are not only affected by such events as are certain
and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are
possible and contingent. And though perhaps I never really

38 Hume's Philosophical Works

feel any harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically
speaking, the person never had any power of harming me,
since he did not exert any, this prevents not my uneasiness
from the preceding uncertainty. The agreeable passion may
here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a pleasure
when I perceive a good to become either possible or probable
by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on
me, upon the removal of any strong motives which might
formerly have hindered him.

But we may further observe, that this satisfaction increases
when any good approaches, in such a manner that it is in
one's own power to take or leave it, and there neither is any
physical impediment, nor any ver\- strong motive to hinder
our enjo}TTient. As all men desire pleasure, nothing can be
more probable than its existence when there is no external
obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in
following their inclinations. In that case their imagination
easily anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy
as if they were persuaded of its real and actual existence.

But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which
attends riches. A miser receives delight from his money;
that is, from the power it affords him of procuring all the
pleasures and conveniences of life, though he knows he has
enjoyed his riches for forty years without ever enjoying them;
and consequently cannot conclude, by any species of reason-
ing, that the real existence of these pleasures is nearer, than
if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. But
though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of
reasoning concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, it
is certain he imagines it to approach nearer, whenever all
external obstacles are removed, along with the more powerful
motives of interest arid danger, which oppose it. For further
satisfaction on this head, I must refer to my account of the
will,^ where I shall explain that false sensation of liberty,
which makes us imagine we can perform anything that is not
very dangerous or destructive. Whenever any other person
is under no strong obligation of interest to forbear any pleasure
we judge from experience, that the pleasure will exist, and
that he will probably obtain it. But when ourselves are in
that situation, we judge from an illusion 0/ the fancy, that the

> Part III. Sect. 2.

Of the Passions 39

pleasure is still closer and more immediate. The will seems
to move easily every way, and casts a shadow or image of
itself even to that side on which it did not settle. By means
of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us,
and gives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly
certain and unavoidable.

If will now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point,
and to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity
in their possessors, as they never fail to do, it is only by means
of a double relation of impressions and ideas. The very
essence of riches consists in the power of procuring the
pleasures and conveniences of life. The very essence of this
power consists in the probability of its exercise, and in its
causing us to anticipate, by a true ox false reasoning, the real
existence of the pleasure. This anticipation of pleasure is,
in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause is some
possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby
related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing
system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us.

For the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride,
and poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must
produce the former emotions, and slavery the latter. Power
or an authority over others makes us capable of satisfying all
our desires; as slavery, by subjecting us to the will of others,
exposes us to a thousand wants and mortifications.

It is here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or
shame of slavery, are much augmented by the consideration
of the persons over whom we exercise our authority, or who
exercise it over us. For, supposing it possible to frame
statues of such an admirable mechanism, that they could
move and act in obedience to the will ; it is evident the posses-
sion of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a
degree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible
and rational creatures, whose condition, being compared to
our own, makes it seem more agreeable and honourable.
Comparison is in every case a sure method of augmenting our
esteem of anything. A rich man feels the felicity of his con-
dition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. But there is
a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which is, in a
manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person
we command. The comparison is obvious and natural: the

40 Hume's Philosophical Works

imagination finds it in the very subject: the passage of the
thought to its conception is smooth and easy. And that
this circumstance has a considerable effect in augmenting
its influence, will appear afterwards in examining the nature
of malice and envy.

SECTION XI

OF THE LOVE OF FAME

But beside these original causes of pride and humility,
there is a secondary one in the opinions of others, which, has
an equal influence on the affections. Our reputation, our
character, our name, are considerations of vast weight and
importance; and even the other causes of pride, virtue,
beauty, and riches, have little influence, when not seconded
by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account
for this phenomenon, it will be necessary to take some com-
pass, and first explain the nature of sympathy.

No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in
itself and in its consequences, than that propensity we have
to sympathise with others, and to receive by communication
their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or
even contrary to, our own. This is not only conspicuous in
children, who implicitly embrace every opinion proposed to
them ; but also in men of the greatest judgment and under-
standing, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason
or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily
companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great
uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of think-
ing of those of the same nation ; and it is much more probable,
that this resemblance arises from sympathy, than from any
influence of the soil and climate, which, though they continue
invariably the same, are not able to preserve the character of
a nation the same for a century together, A good-natured
man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his
company; and even the proudest and most surly take a
tincture from their countrymen and acquaintance. A cheer-
ful countenance infuses a sensible complacency and serenity

Of the Passions 41

into my mind ; as an angry or sorrowful one throws a sudden
damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love, courage,
mirth, and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from
communication, than from my own natural temper and dis-
position. So remarkable a phenomenon merits our attention,
and must be traced up to its first principles.

When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first
known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the
countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it.
This idea is presently converted into an impression, and
acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become
the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion as an
original affection. However instantaneous this change of the
idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain views
and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a
philosopher, though they may the person himself who makes
them.

It is evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves
is always intimately present with us, and that our conscious-
ness gives us so lively a conception of our own person, that it
is not possible to imagine that any thing can in this particular
go beyond it. Whatever object, therefore, is related to our-
selves, must be conceived with a like vivacity of conception,
according to the foregoing principles ; and though this relation
should not be so strong as that of causation, it must still have
a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity are
relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an infer-
ence from cause and effect, and by the observation of external
signs, we are informed of the real existence of the object,
which is resembling or contiguous.

Now, it is obvious that nature has preserved a great
resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never
remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some
degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. The
case is the same with the fabric of the mind as with that of the
body. However the parts may differ in shape or size, their
structure and composition are in general the same. There
is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself
amidst all their variety; and this resemblance must very
much contribute to make us enter into the sentiments of others,
and embrace them with facility and pleasure. Accord-

42 Hume's Philosophical Works

ingly we find, that where, beside the general resemblance of
our natures, there is any peculiar similarity in our manners,
or character, or country, or language, it facilitates the sym-
pathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and
any object, the more easily does the imagination make the
transition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of
conception, with which we always form the idea of our own
person.

Nor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect,
but receives new force from other relations that may accom-
pany it. The sentiments of others have little influence when
far removed from us, and require the relation of contiguity
to make them communicate themselves entirely. The rela-
tions of blood, being a species of causation, may some-
times contribute to the same effect; as also acquaintance,
which operates in the same manner with education and
custom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.^ All these
relations, when united together, convey the impression or
consciousness of our own person to the idea of the sentiments
or passions of others, and makes us conceive them in the
strongest and most lively manner.

It has been remarked in the beginning of this Treatise,
that all ideas are borrowed from impressions, and that these
two kinds of perceptions differ only in the degrees of force
and vivacity with which they strike upon the soul. The
component parts of ideas and impressions are precisely alike.
The manner and order of their appearance may be the same.
The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore,
the only particulars that distinguish them : and as this differ-
ence may be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt
the impressions and ideas, it is no wonder an idea of a senti-
ment or passion may by this means be so enlivened as to
become the very sentiment or passion. The lively idea of
any objects always approaches its impression ; and it is certain
we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of imagina-
tion, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But
this is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and
it is there principally that a lively idea is converted into an
impression. Our affections depend more upon ourselves,
and the internal operations of the mind, than any other

1 Part II. Sect. 4.

Of the Passions 43

impressions; for which reason they arise more naturally from
the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of them.
This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and it is after
this manner we enter so deep into the opinions and afiections
of others, whenever we discover them.

What is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the
strong confirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing
system concerning the understanding, and consequently to
the present one concerning the passions, since these are
analogous to each other. It is indeed evident, that when we
sympathise with the passions and sentiments of others, these
movements appear at first in our mind as mere ideas, and are
conceived to belong to another person, as Ave conceive any
other matter of fact. It is also evident, that the ideas of the
affections of others are converted into the very impressions
they represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to
the images we form of them. All this is an object of the
plainest experience, and depends not on any hypothesis of
philosophy. That science can only be admitted to explain
the phenomena; though at the same time it must be confessed,
they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little occasion
to employ it. For, besides the relation of cause and effect, by
which we are convinced of the reality of the passion v/ith
which we sympathise ; besides this, I say, we must be assisted
by the relations of resemblance and contiguity, in order to
feel the sympathy in its full perfection. And since these
relations can entirely convert an idea into an impression, and
convey the vivacity of the latter into the former, so perfectly
as to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may easily con-
ceive how the relation of cause and effect alone may serve to
strengthen and enliven an idea. In sympathy there is an
evident conversion of an idea into an impression. This con-
version arises from the relation of objects to ourselves. Our-
self is always intimately present to us. Let us compare all
these circumstances, and we shall find that sympathy is
exactly correspondent to the operations of our understanding;
and even contains something more surprising and extra-
ordinary.

It is now time to turn our view from the general considera-
tion of sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility,
when these passions arise from praise and blame, from reputa-

44 Hume's Philosophical Works

tion and infamy. We may observe, that no person is ever
praised by another for any quality which would not, if real,
produce of itself a pride in the person possessed of it. The
eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, or
virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we have
already explained and accounted for. It is certain, then, that
if a person considered himself in the same light in which he
appears to his admirer, he would first receive a separate
pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, accord-
ing to the hypothesis above explained. Now, nothing is
more natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others
in this particular, both from sympathy, which renders all their
sentiments intimately present to us, and from reasoning,
which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument
for what they affirm. These two prmciples of authority and
sympathy influence almost all our opinions, but must have
a peculiar influence when we judge of our own worth and char-
acter. Such judgments are always attended with passion; ^
and nothmg tends more to disturb our understanding, and
precipitate us into any opinions, however unreasonable, than
their connection with passion, which diffuses itself over the
imagination, and gives an additional force to every related
idea. To which we may add, that, being conscious of great
partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with
anything that confirms the good opinion we have of ourselves,
and are easily shocked with whatever opposes it.

All this appears very probable in theory; but in order to
bestow a full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine
the phenomena of the passions, and see if they agree with it.

Among these phenomena we may esteem it a very favour-
able one to our present purpose, that though fame in general
be agreeable, yet we receive a much greater satisfaction from
the approbation of those whom we ourselves esteem and
approve of, than of those whom we hate and despise. In
like manner we are principally mortified with the contempt
of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are,
in a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest
of mankind. But if the mind received from any original
instinct a desire of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and
infamy would influence us without distinction; and every
1 Book I. Part III. Sect. lo.

Of the Passions 45

opinion, according as it were favourable or unfavourable,
would equally excite that desire or aversion. The judgment
of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as that of a
wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own
judgment.

We are not only better pleased with the approbation of a
wise man than with that of a fool, but receive an additional
satisfaction from the former, when it is obtained after a long
and intimate acquaintance. This is accounted for after the
same manner.

The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless
they concur with our own opinion, and extol us for those
qualities in which we chiefly excel. A mere soldier little
values the character of eloquence; a gownman, of courage;
a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of learning. Whatever
esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly con-
sidered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the
opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that
particular, and that because they never will be able to draw
his own opinion after them.

Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but
narrow circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and
rather seek their livelihood by mean and mechanical employ-
ments among strangers, than among those who are acquainted
with their birth and education. We shall be unknown, say
they, where we go. Nobody will suspect from what family
we are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends
and acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by
that means sit more easy upon us. In examining these
sentiments, I find they afford many very convincing argu-
ments for my present purpose.

First, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being
contemned depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends
on the relation of objects to ourselves, since we are most
uneasy under the contempt of persons who are both related
to us by blood and contiguous in place. Hence we seek to
diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these
relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers,
and at a distance from relations.

Secondly, we may conclude that relations are requisite to
sympathy, not absolutely considered as relations, but by their

46 Hume's Philosophical Works

influence in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others
into the very sentiments by means of the association betwixt
the idea of their persons and that of our own. For here the
relations of kindred and contiguity both subsist, but not being
united in the same persons, they contribute in a less degree
to the sympathy.

Thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sym-
pathy, by the separation of relations, is worthy of our
attention. Suppose I am placed in a poor condition among
strangers, and consequently am but lightly treated; I yet
find myself easier in that situation than when I was every day
exposed to the contempt of my kmdred and countr}Tnen.
Here I feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they
are absent; from those about me, but they are strangers.
This double contempt is likewise strengthened by the two
relations of kindred and contiguity. But as the persons are
not the same who are connected with me by those two
relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions
arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into
each other. The contempt of my neighbours has a certain
influence, as has also that of my kindred ; but these influences
are distinct and never unite, as when the contempt proceeds
from persons who are at once both my neighbours and kindred.
This phenomenon is analogous to the system of pride and
humihty above explained, which may seem so extraordinary
to vulgar apprehensions.

Fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally con-
ceals his birth from those among whom he lives, and is very
uneasy if any one suspects him to be of a family much superior
to his present fortune and way of living. Everj'thing in this
world is judged of by comparison. What is an immense
fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince. A
peasant would think himself happy in what carmot afford
necessaries for a gentleman. When a man has either been
accustomed to a more splendid way of living, or thinks him-
self entitled to it by his birth and quality, everything below
is disagreeable and even shameful ; and it is with the greatest
industry he conceals his pretensions to a better fortune.
Here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with
whom he lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable
reflection and comparison suggested only by his own thoughts^

Of the Passions 47

and never receives it by a sympathy with others ; which must
contribute very much to his ease and satisfaction.

If there be any objections to this hypothesis, that the
pleasure which we receive from praise arises from a communica-
tion of sentiments, we shall find, upon examination, that
these objections, when taken in a proper light, will serve to
confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable even to a man
who despises the vulgar; but it is because their multitude
gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are
delighted with praises, which they are conscious they do not
deserve; but this is a kind of castle-building, where the
imagination amuses itself with its own fictions, and tries ta
render them firm and stable by a sympathy with the senti-
ments of others. Proud men are most shocked with con-
tempt, though they do not most readily assent to itj but it is
because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is
natural to them, and that received by sympathy. A violent
lover, in like manner, is very much displeased when you
blame and condemn his love; though it is evident your
opposition can have no influence but by the hold it takes of
himself, and by his sympathy with you. If he despises you,
or perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect
upon him.

SECTION XII

OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS

Thus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may-
still observe that the causes of pride and humility correspond
exactly to our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite ei her
of these passions, unless it be both related to ourselves, and
produces a pleasure or pain independent of the passion.
We have not only proved, that a tendency to produce a
pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of pride or
humility, but also that it is the only thing which is common,
and consequently is the quality by which they operate. We
have further proved, that the most considerable causes of
these passions are really nothing but the power of producing.

48 Hume's Philosophical Works

either agreeable or uneasy sensations; and therefore that all
their effects^ and amongst the rest pride and humility, are
derived solely from that origin. Such simple and natural
principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be
received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections
that have escaped me.

It is usual with anatomists to join their observations and
experiments on human bodies to those on beasts; and, from
the agreement of these experiments, to derive an additional
argument for any particular hypothesis. It is indeed certain,
that where the structure of parts in brutes is the same as in
men, and the operation of these parts also the same, the
causes of that operation cannot be different ; and that what-
ever we discover to be true of the one species, may be con-
cluded, without hesitation, to be certain of the other. Thus,
though the mixture of humours, and the composition of
minute parts, may justly be presumed to be somewhat
different in men from what it is in mere animals, and there-
fore any experiment we make upon the one concerning the
effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet,
as the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and
situation of the heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver,
and other parts, are the same or nearly the same in all
animals, the very same hypothesis, which in one species
explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, the
circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one;
and, according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments
we may make in any species of creatures, we may draw a
proof of its truth or falsehood on the whole. Let us therefore
apply this method of inquiry, which is found so just and
useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our present
anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make
by it.

In order to this, we must first show the correspondence of
passions in men and animals, and afterwards compare the
causes which produce these passions.

It is plain, that in almost every species of creatures, but
especially of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks
of pride and humiHty. The very port and gait of a swan, or
turkey, or peacock, show the high idea he has entertained of
himself, and his contempt of all others. This is the more

Of the Passions 49

remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals, the pride
always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the male
only. The vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing
have been commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses
in swiftness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of the bull and
cock in strength, and of every other animal in his particular
excellency. Add to this, that every species of creatures,
which approach so often to man as to familiarise themselves
with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and are
pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every
other consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one
without distinction which give them this vanity, but those
principally of the persons they know and love; in the same
manner as that passion is excited in mankind. All these are
evident proofs that pride and humility are not merely human
passions, but extend themselves over the whole animal
creation.

The causes of these passions are likewise much the same in
beasts as in us, making a just allowance for our superior
knowledge and understanding. Thus animals have little or
no sense of virtue or vice; they quickly lose sight of the
relations of blood; and are incapable of that of right and
property: for which reason the causes of their pride and
humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed
either in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards
the body, the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in
the human kind; and it is on beauty, strength, swiftness, or
some other useful or agreeable quality, that this passage is
always founded.

The next question is, whether, since those passions are the
same, and arise from the same causes through the whole
creation, the manner in which the causes operate be also the
same. According to all rules of analogy, this is justly to be
expected; and if we find upon trial, that the explication of
these phenomena, which we make use of in one species, will
not apply to the rest, we may presume that that explication,
however specious, is in reahty without foundation.

In order to decide this question, let us consider that there

is evidently the same relation of ideas, and derived from the

same causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. A

dog that has hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when

n D

50 Hume's Philosophical Works

brought to it, his thought passes easily to what he formerly
concealed, by means of the contiguity, which produces a
relation among his ideas. In like manner, when he has been
heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his approach to
it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger.
The effects of resemblance are not so remarkable ; but as that
relation makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of
which all animals show so evident a judgment, we may con-
clude, that the three relations of resemblance, contiguity,
and causation operate in the same manner upon beasts as
upon human creatures.

There are also instances of the relation of impressions,
sufficient to convince us that there is a union of certain
affections with each other in the inferior species of creatures,
as well as in the superior, and that their minds are frequently
conveyed through a series of connected emotions. A dog,
when elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and kind-
ness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner,
when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and
ill-natured; and that passion, which at first was grief, is by
the smallest occasion converted into anger.

Thus all the internal principles that are necessary in us to
produce either pride or humility, are common to all creatures;
and since the causes, which excite these passions, are likewise
the same, we may justly conclude, that these causes operate
after the same manner through the whole animal creation.
My h}qDothesis is so simple, and supposes so little reflection
and judgment, that it is applicable to every sensible creature;
which must not only be allowed to be a convincing proof of
its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an objection
to everv other svstem.

PART II

OF LOVE AND HATRED

SECTION I

OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED

It is altogether impossible to give any definition of the
passions of love and hatred ; and that because they produce
merely a simple impression, without atiy mixture or com-
position. It would be as unnecessary to attempt any
description of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes,
and objects; and that both because these are the sulDJects of
our present inquiry, and because these passions of themselves
are sufficiently known from our common feeling and experi-
ence. This we have already observed concerning pride and
humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred;
and, indeed, there is so great a resemblance betwixt these
two sets of passions, that we shall be obliged to begin with
a kind of abridgment of our reasonings concerning the
former, in order to explain the latter.

As the immediate object of pride and humility is self, or that
identical person of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations,
we are intimately conscious ; so the ohject of love and hatred
in some other person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sensa^
tions, we are not conscious. This is sufficiently evident from
experience. Our love and hatred are always directed to
some sensible being external to us; and when we talk of
self-love, it is not in a proper sense, nor has the sensation it
produces anything in common with that tender emotion,
which is excited by a friend or mistress. It is the same case
with hatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and
follies; but never feel any anger or hatred, except from
the injuries of others.

But though the object of love and hatred be always some
other person, it is plain that the object is not, properly speak-
ing, the cause of these passions, or alone sufficient to excite
them. For since love and hatred are directly contrary in their

51

52 Hume's Philosophical Works

sensation, and have the same object in common, if that
object were also their cause, it would produce these opposite
passions in an equal degree ; and as they must, from the very
first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever
be able to make its appearance. There must, therefore,
be some cause different from the object.

If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find
they are very much diversified, and have not many things in
common. The virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good-
humour of any person, produce love and esteem; as the
opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same passions
arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force,
swiftness, dexterity;" and from their contraries; as likewise
from the external advantages and disadvantages of family,
possessions, clothes, nation, and climate. There is not one
of these objects but what, by its different qualities, may
produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt.

From the view of these causes we may derive a new
distinction betwixt the quality that operates, and the subject
on which it is placed. A prince that is possessed of a stately
palace commands the esteem of the people upon that account;
and that, first, by the beauty of the palace; and, secondly,
by the relation of property, which connects it with him. The
removal of either of these destroys the passion; which
evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one.

It would be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred
through all the observations which we have formed concerning
pride and humility, and which are equally applicable to
both sets of passions. It will be sufficient to remark, in
general, that the object of love and hatred is evidently some
thinking person ; and that the sensation of the former passion
is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also
suppose, with some show of probability, that the cause of
both these passions is always related to a thinking being, and
that the cause of the former produces a separate pleasure, and
of the latter separate uneasiness.

One of these suppositions, \az. that the cause of love and
hatred must be related to a person or thinking being, in order
to produce these passions, is not only probable, but too
evident to be contested. Virtue and vice, when considered
in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when placed on

Of the Passions 53

inanimate objects ; poverty and riches, when belonging to a
third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or
contempt, towards those who have no relation to them.
A person looking out at a window sees me in the street, and
beyond me a beautiful palace, with which I have no concern;
I believe none will pretend, that this person will pay me the
same respect as if I were owner of the palace.

It is not so evident at first sight, that a relation of
impressions is requisite to these passions, and that because
in the transition the one impression is so much confounded
with the other, that they become in a manner undistinguish-
able. But as in pride and humility, we have easily been
able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause
of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I
might here observe the same method with the same success,
in examining particularly the several causes of love and
hatred. But as I hasten to a full and decisive proof of these
systems, I delay this examination for a moment; and in the
meantime shall endeavour to convert to my present purpose
all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an
argument that is founded on unquestionable experience.

There are few persons that are satisfied with their own
character, or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of
showing themselves to the world, and of acquiring the love
and approbation of mankind. Now it is evident, that the
very same qualities and circumstances, which are the causes
of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity, or the
desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those
particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied.
But if love and esteem were not produced by the same
qualities as pride, according as these qualities are related to
ourselves or others, this method of proceeding would be very
absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence in the senti-
ments of every other person with those themselves have
entertained. It is true, few can form exact systems of the
passions, or make reflections on their general nature and
resemblances. But without such a progress in philosophy,
we are not subject to many mistakes in this particular, but
are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by
a kind of presentation, which tells us what will operate on
others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since

54 Hume's Philosophical Works

then the same quaUties that produce pride or humihty,
cause love or hatred, all the arguments that have been
employed to prove that the causes of the former passions
excite a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will
be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the
latter.

SECTION II

EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM

Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make
any scruple to assent to that conclusion I draw from them,
concerning the transition along related impressions and ideas,
especially as it is a principle in itself so easy and natural.
But that we may place this system beyond doubt, both with
regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, it will be proper
to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as
well as to recall a few of these obser\'-ations which I have
formerly touched upon.

In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am
in company with a person, whom I formerly regarded with-
out any sentiments either of friendship or enmity. Here I
have the natural and ultimate object of all these four passions
placed before me. Myself am the proper object of pride or
humility; the other person of love or hatred.

Regard now with attention the nature of these passions,
and their situation with respect to each other. It is evident
here are four affections, placed as it were in a square, or
regular connection with, and distance from, each other.
The passions of pride and humility, as well as those of love
and hatred, are connected together by the identity of their
object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the second
some other person. These two lines of communication or
connection form two opposite sides of the square. Again,
pride and love are agreeable passions; hatred and humility
uneasy. This similitude of sensation betwixt pride and love,
and that betwixt humility and hatred, form a new connection,
and may be considered as the other two sides of the square.

Of the Passions 55

Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with
hatred, by their objects or ideas : pride with love, humility
with hatred, by their sensations or impressions.

I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions
without bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the
object of the passion, and of sensation to the passion itself.
This we must prove by our experiments.

First experiment. To proceed with the greater order in
these experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in
the situation above mentioned, viz. in company with some
other person, there is an object presented, that has no rela-
tion either of impressions or ideas to any of these passions.
Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary stone, or other
common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of
itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: it is
evident such an object will produce none of these four
passions. Let us try it upon each of them successively.
Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride;
none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable.
Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided still
we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let
us repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the
mind is susceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature
will, in any disposition, produce any passion without these
relations.

Second experiment. Since an object that wants both these
relations can never produce any passion, let us bestow on it
only one of these relations, and see what will follow. Thus,
suppose I regard a stone, or any common object that belongs
either to me or my companion, and by that means acquires a
relation of ideas to the object of the passions: it is plain
that, to consider the matter a priori., no emotion of any kind
can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of
ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows
an equal impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and
humility, love and hatred, according as the object belongs
to ourselves or others; which opposition of the passions
must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly free from
any affection or emotion. This reasoning a priori is con-
firmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that
causes not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion,

56 Hume's Philosophical Works

will ever, by its property or other relations, either to our-
selves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride or
humility, love or hatred.

Third experiment. It is evident, therefore, that a relation
of ideas is not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let
us now remove this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation
of impressions, by presenting an object, which is agreeable or
disagreeable, but has no relation either to ourself or com-
panion; and let us observe the consequences. To consider
the matter first a priori, as in the preceding experiment, we
may conclude that the object will have a small, but an
uncertain connection with these passions. For, besides that
this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not
the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with
equal force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposi-
tion, destroy each other. But if we consider, on the other
hand, that this transition from the sensation to the affection
is not forwarded by any principle that produces a transition
of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though the one impres-
sion be easily transfused into the other, yet the change of
objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause
a transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that
nothing will ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion
that is connected with the passion merely by a relation of
impressions. What our reason would conclude from analogy,
after balancing these arguments, would be, that an object,
which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner
of connection either with ourselves or others, may give such
a turn to the disposition as that it may naturally fall into
pride or love, humility or hatred, and search for other objects,
upon which, by a double relation, it can found these affec-
tions; but that an object, which has only one of these rela-
tions, though the most advantageous one, can never give
rise to any constant and established passion.

Most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly
conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions.
Suppose I were travelling with a companion through a
country to which we are both utter strangers; it is evident
that if the prospects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and
the inns commodious, this may put me into good humour
both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose

Of the Passions

S7

that this country has no relation either to himself or friend,
it can never be the immediate cause of pride or love; and,
therefore, if I found not the passion on some other object
that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are
rather to be considered as the overflowing of an elevate or
humane disposition, than as an estabhshed passion. The
case is the same where the object produces uneasiness.

Fourth experiment. Having found that neither an object,
without any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object
that has only one relation, can ever cause pride or humility,
love or hatred; reason alone may convince us, without any
further experiment, that whatever has a double relation
must necessarily excite these passions; since it is evident
they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room for
doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see
whether the event in this case answers our expectation. I
choose an object, such as virtue, that causes a separate
satisfaction: on this object I bestow a relation to self; and
find, that from this disposition of affairs there immediately
arises a passion. But what passion.? That very one of
pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its
idea is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the
sensation it causes resembles the sensation of the passion.
That I may be sure I am not mistaken in this experiment, I
remove first one relation, then another, and find that each
removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly
indifferent. But I am not content with this. I make a still
further trial; and instead of removing the relation, I only
change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue to
belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what
follows from this alteration. I immediately perceive the
affections to wheel about, and leaving pride, where there is
only one relation, viz. of impressions, fall to the side of love,
where they are attracted by a double relation of impressions
and ideas. By repeating the same experiment in changing
anew the relation of ideas, I bring the affections back to
pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them at love
or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this
relation, I try the effect of the other; and, by changing virtue
for vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from
the former, into the disagreeable one which proceeds from

58 Hume's Philosophical Works

the latter. The effect still answers expectation. Vice, when
placed on another, excites, by means of its double relations,
the passion of hatred, instead of love, which, for the same
reason, arises from virtue. To continue the experiment, I
change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice to
belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subse-
quent change of the passion from hatred to humility. This
humility I convert into pride by a new change of the impres-
sion; and find, after all, that I have completed the round,
and have by these changes brought back the passion to that
very situation in which I first found it.

But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the
object; and, instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon
beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and
servitude. Each of these objects runs the circle of the
passions in the same manner, by a change of their relations :
and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride,
love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love,
pride, the experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem
and contempt, indeed, arise on some occasions instead of
love and hatred; but these are, at the bottom, the same
passions, only diversified by some causes, which we shall
explain afterwards.

Fifth experiment. To give greater authority to these
experiments, let us change the situation of affairs as much as
possible, and place the passions and objects in all the different
positions of which they are susceptible. Let us suppose,
beside the relations above mentioned, that the person, along
with whom I make all these experiments, is closely connected
with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall
suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and
familiar acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause
of the passion acquires a double relation of impressions and
ideas to this person; and let us see what the effects are of all
these complicated attractions and relations.

Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine
what they ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. It
is plain that, according as the impression is either pleasant
or uneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arise towards
the person who is thus connected to the cause of the impres-
sion by these double relations which I have all along required.

Of the Passions 59

The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice
or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge
only from the situation of affairs, I should not expect that the
affections would rest there, and never transfuse themselves
into any other impression. As there is here a person, who,
by means of a double relation, is the object of my passion,
the very same reasoning leads me to think the passion will
be carried further. The person has a relation of ideas to
myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which
he is the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a
relation of impressions to pride or humility. It is evident,
then, that one of these passions must arise from the love or
hatred.

This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypo-
thesis; and am pleased to find, upon trial, that everything
answers exactly to my expectation. The virtue or vice of a
son or brother not only excites love or hatred, but, by a new
transition from similar causes, gives rise to pride or humility.
Nothing causes greater vanity than any shining quality in our
relations; as nothing mortifies us more than their vice or
infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our reason-
ing is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis
upon which we reason.

Sixth experiment. This evidence will be still augmented if
we reverse the experiment, and, preserving still the same
relations, begin only with a different passion. Suppose that,
instead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother, which causes
first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or humility, we
place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without any
immediate connection with the person who is related to us,
experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the
whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from
one passion to another, as in the preceding instance. We
never love or hate a son or brother for the virtue or vice we
discern in ourselves; though it is evident the same qualities
in him give us a very sensible pride or humility. The transi-
tion from pride or humility to love or hatred, is not so natural
as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This may at
first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the
relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely
the same. Pride and humility are impressions related to

6o Hume's Philosophical Works

love and hatred. Myself am related to the person. It
should therefore be expected, that like causes must produce
like effects, and a perfect transition arise from the double
relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may easily
solve by the following reflections.

It is evident that, as we are at all times intimately con-
scious of ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas
must strike upon us with greater vivacity than the idea of
the sentiments and passions of any other person. But every-
thing that strikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a
full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into our con-
sideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest
hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when
it is once present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from
wandering to other objects, however strong may be their
relation to our first object. The imagination passes easily
from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively
to obscure. In the one case the relation is aided by another
principle ; in the other case, it is opposed by it.

Now, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind,
the imagination and passions, assist each other in their
operation when their propensities are similar, and when they
act upon the same object. The mind has always a pro-
pensity to pass from a passion to any other related to it;
and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the one
passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses
concur with each other, and render the whole transition
more smooth and easy. But if it should happen, that, while
the relation of ideas, strictly speaking, continues the same,
its influence in causing a transition of the imagination should
no longer take place, it is evident its influence on the passions
must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that transi-
tion. This is the reason why pride or humility is not trans-
fused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter
passions are changed into the former. If a person be my
brother, I am his likewise: but though the relations be
reciprocal, they have very different effects on the imagina-
tion. The passage is smooth and open from the consideration
of any person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are
every moment conscious. But when the affections are once
directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility

Of the Passions 6i

from that object to any other person, how closely soever
connected with us. This easy or difficult transition of the
imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates or
retards their transition; which is a clear proof that these
two faculties of the passions and imagination are connected
together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence
upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that
prove this, we here find, that even when the relation remains ;
if by any particular circumstance its usual effect upon the
fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas is
prevented, its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying us
from one to another, is in like manner prevented.

Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this
phenomenon and that of sympathy, where the mind passes
easily from the idea of ourselves to that of any other object
related to us. But this difficulty will vanish, if we consider
that in sympathy our own person is not the object of any
passion, nor is there anything that fixes our attention on
ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed to
be actuated with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of
the perception of every other object, is in reality nothing;
for which reason we must turn our view to external objects,
and it is natural for us to consider with most attention such as
he contiguous to us, or resemble us. But when self is the
object of a passion, it is not natural to quit the consideration
of it till the passion be exhausted, in which case the double
relations of impressions and ideas can no longer operate.

Seventh experiment. To put this whole reasoning to a
further trial, let us make a new experiment; and as we have
already seen the effects of related passions and ideas let us
here suppose an identity of passions along with a relation of
ideas; and let us consider the effects of this new situation.
It is evident a transition of the passions from the one object
to the other is here in all reason to be expected; since the
relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, and an identity
of impressions must produce a stronger connection, than the
most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double
relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas is able to produce
a transition from one to the other, much more an identity of
impressions with a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find,
that when we either love or hate any person, the passions

62 Hume's Philosophical Works

seldom continue within their first bounds ; but extend them-
selves towards all the contiguous objects^ and comprehend
the friends and relations of him we love or hate. Nothing
is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on
account of our friendship for another^ without any further
examination of his character. A quarrel with one person
gives us a hatred for the whole family, though entirely
innocent of that which displeases us. Instances of this kind
are everywhere to be met with.

There is only one difficulty in this experiment which it
will be necessary to account for, before we proceed any
further. It is evident, that though all passions pass easily
from one object to another related to it, yet this transition is
made with greater facility where the more considerable
object is first presented, and the lesser follows it, than where
this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the precedence.
Thus it is more natural for us to love the son upon account
of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the
servant for the master, than the master for the servant; the
subject for the prince, than the prince for the subject. In
like manner we more readily contract a hatred against a
whole family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it,
than where we are displeased with a son, or servant, or some
inferior member. In short, our passions, like other objects,
descend with greater facility than they ascend.

That we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty
of explaining this phenomenon, we must consider, that the
very same reason which determines the imagination to pass
from remote to contiguous objects with more facility than
from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to change with
more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for the less.
Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of;
and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most
readily to the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in
any subject what is trivial, than what appears of considerable
moment; but especially if the latter takes the precedence,
and first engages our attention. Thus, if any accident makes
us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our fancy is naturally
determined to form the idea of that planet; but if we first
reflect on the principal planet, it is more natural for us to
overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of

Of the Passions 63

any empire conveys our thought to the seat of the empire;
but the fancy returns not with the same facihty to the con-
sideration of the provinces. The idea of the servant makes
us think of the master; that of the subject carries our view
to the prince. But the same relation has not an equal
influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded
that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be
ashamed she should be more known by the title of the
daughter of Scipio, than by that of the mother of the Gracchi.
This was, in other words, exhorting them to render them-
selves as illustrious and famous as their grandfather, other-
wise the imagination of the people, passing from her who
was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both,
would always leave them, and denominate her by what was
more considerable and of greater moment. On the same
principle is founded that common custom of making wives
bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands that
of their wives ; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency
to those whom we honour and respect. We might find many
other instances to confirm this principle, were it not already
sufhciently evident.

Now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing
from the lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous,
why does not this easy transition of ideas assist the transition
of passions in the former case as well as in the latter? The
virtues of a friend or brother produce first love, and then
pride; because in that case the imagination passes from
remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. Our own
virtues produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or
brother; because the passage in that case would be from
contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the
love or hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion
to the superior, though that be the natural propensity of the
imagination : while the love or hatred of a superior, causes a
passion to the inferior, contrary to its propensity. In short,
the same facility of transition operates not in the same
manner upon superior and inferior as upon contiguous and
remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and
require some attention to be reconciled.

As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the
natural propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be

64 Hume's Philosophical Works

overpowered by some stronger principle of another kind;
and as there is nothing ever present to the mind but impres-
sions and ideas, this principle must necessarily lie in the
impressions. Now, it has been observed, that impressions or
passions are connected only by their resemblance, and that
where any two passions place the mind in the same or in
similar dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to
the other: as on the contrary, a repugnance in the disposi-
tions produces a difficulty in the transition of the passions.
But it is observable that this repugnance may arise from a
difference of degree as well as of kind ; nor do we experience
a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree
of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to a
great degree of either of these affections. A man, when
calm or only moderately agitated, is so different, in every
respect, from himself, when disturbed with a violent passion,
that no two persons can be more unlike; nor is it easy to
pass from the one extreme to the other, without a consider-
able interval betwixt them.

The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in pass-
ing from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from
the weak to the strong, provided the one passion upon its
appearance destroys the other, and they do not both of them
exist at once. But the case is entirely altered when the
passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the same
time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes not
so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when
added to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connec-
tion betwixt the great degree and the small, than betwixt
the small degree and the great.

The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its
object; and an affection directed to a person, who is con-
siderable in our eyes, fills and possesses the mind much more
than one which has for its object a person we esteem of less
consequence. Here, then, the contradiction betwixt the
propensities of the imagination and passion displays itself.
When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the
imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to
the great, than from the great to the small; but the affec-
tions find a greater difficulty: and as the affections are a
more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder

Of the Passions 65

they prevail over it^ and draw the mind to their side. In
spite of the difficulty in passing from the idea of great to that
of little, a passion directed to the former produces always
a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and
little are related together. The idea of the servant conveys
our thought most readily to the master; but the hatred or
love of the master produces with greater facility anger or
good-will to the servant. The strongest passion in this case
takes the precedence ; and the addition of the weaker making
no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is by
that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them.

As, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation
of ideas, which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to
produce its usual effect of facilitating the transition of ideas,
ceases likewise to operate on the passions; so, in the present
experiment, we find the same property of the impressions.
Two different degrees of the same passion are surely related
together; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or
no tendency to introduce the greater; and that because the
addition of the great to the little produces a more sensible
alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to
the great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be
found convincing proofs of this hypothesis.

And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the
manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction
I have observed betwixt the passions and the imagination.
The fancy passes with more facility from the less to the
greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the
contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble
than that does a violent. In this opposition, the passion in
the end prevails over the imagination; but it is commonly
by complying with it, and by seeking another quality, which
may counter-balance that principle from whence the opposi-
tion arises. When we love the father or master of a family,
we little think of his children or servants. But when these
are present with us, or when it lies anyways in our power to
serve them, the nearness and contiguity in this case increases
their magnitude, or at least removes that opposition which
the fancy makes to the transition of the affections. If the
imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater to less,
it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to contiguous,

II E

66 Hume's Philosophical Works

which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves the way
open from the one passion to the other.

Eighth experiment. I have observed that the transition
from love or hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than
from pride or humility to love or hatred; and that the diffi-
culty which the imagination finds in passing from contiguous
to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any instance of
the latter transition of the affections. I must, however,
make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride
and humility is placed in some other person. For, in that
case, the imagination is necessitated to consider the person,
nor can it possibly confine its view to ourselves. Thus,
nothing more readily produces kindness and affection to
any person than his approbation of our conduct and char-
acter; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with a
stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, it is
evident, that the original passion is pride or humility, whose
object is self; and that this passion is transfused into love or
hatred, whose object is some other person, notwithstanding
the rule I have already established, that the imagination
passes with difficulty from contiguous to remote. But the
transition in this case is not made merely on account of the
relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that
very person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of con-
sequence, is intimately connected with it. It is his approba-
tion that produces pride, and disapprobation humility. No
wonder, then, the imagination returns back again, attended
with the related passions of love and hatred. This is not a
contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an excep-
tion that arises from the same reason with the rule itself.

Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirma-
tion of the rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight
experiments I have explained, we shall find that the same
principle appears in all of them, and that it is by means of a
transition arising from a double relation of impressions and
ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are produced.
An object without a relation,^ or with but one,^ never pro-
duces either of these passions ; and it is found ^ that the
passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay,

* First experiment. * Second and third experiments.

* Fourth experiment.

I

Of the Passions 67

we may observe, that where the relation, by any particular
circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a transi-
tion either of ideas or of impressions/ it ceases to operate
upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor love,
humiUty nor hatred. This rule we find still to hold good,
even under the appearance of its contrary; - and as a relation
is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon
examination is found to proceed from some particular cir-
cumstance that prevents the transition ; so, even in instances
where that circumstance, though present, prevents not the
transition, it is found to arise from some other circumstance
which counterbalances it. Thus not only the variations
resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the
variations of these variations.

SECTION III

DIFFICULTIES SOLVED

After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from
daily experience and observation, it may seem superfluous
to enter into a particular examination of all the causes of
love and hatred. I shall therefore employ the sequel of this
part, first, in removing some difficulties concerning particular
causes of these passions; secondly, in examining the com-
pound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and
hatred with other emotions.

Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our

kindness, or is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the

j pleasure or uneasiness we receive from him, and that the

i passions kept pace exactly with the sensations in all their

I changes and variations. Whoever can find the means,

j either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render

j himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections;

I as, on the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never

i fails to excite our anger or hatred. When our own nation

j is at war with any other, we detest them under the character

of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and violent; but always esteem

1 Sixth experiment. * Seventh and eighth experiments.

68 Hume's Philosophical Works

ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. If
the general of our enemies be successful, it is with difficulty
we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is
a sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is
reported of Oliver Cromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg;
he is bloody-minded, and takes a pleasure in death and
destruction. But if the success be on our side, our commander
has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue,
as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call
policy ; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short,
every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or
dignify it with the name of that virtue which approaches it.
It is evident the same method of thinking runs through
common life.

There are some who add another condition, and require
not only that the pain and pleasure arise from the person,
but likewise that it arise knowingly, and with a particular
design and intention. A man who wounds and harms us by
accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor
do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one
who does us any service after the same manner. By the
intention we judge of the actions; and, according as that is
good or bad, they become causes of love or hatred.

But here we must make a distinction. If that quality
in another, which pleases or displeases, be constant and
inherent in his person and character, it will cause love or
hatred, independent of the intention : but otherwise a know-
ledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to these
passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly,
is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain
than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us
by these qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from
a quality, but an action, which is produced and annihilated
in a moment, it is necessary, in order to produce some relation,
and connect this action sufficiently with the person, that it
be derived from a particular forethought and design. It is
not enough that the action arise from the person, and have
him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone
is too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these
passions. It reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and
neither proceeds from anything durable in him, nor leaves

Of the Passions 69

anything behind it, but passes in a moment, and is as if
it had never been. On the other hand, an intention shows
certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is per-
formed, connect it with the person, and faciHtate the transi-
tion of ideas from one to the other. We can never think
of him without reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance
and a change of life have produced an alteration in that
respect; in which case the passion is likewise altered. This,
therefore, is one reason why an intention is requisite to
excite either love or hatred.

But we must further consider, that an intention, besides
its strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary
to produce a relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure
and uneasiness. For it is observable, that the principal part
of an injury is the contempt and hatred which it shows in
the person that injures us; and without that, the mere harm
gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like manner, a good
ofifice is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vanity, and
is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who
performs it. The removal of the intention removes the
mortification in the one case, and vanity in the other; and
must of course cause a remarkable diminution in the passions
of love and hatred.

I grant that these effects of the removal of design, in
diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not
entire, nor able to remove every degree of these relations.
But then I ask, if the removal of design be able entirely to
remove the passion of love and hatred? Experience, I
am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there anything
more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger for
injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely
involuntary and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot
be of long continuance, but still is sufficient to show, that
there is a natural connection betwixt uneasiness and anger,
and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a very
small relation of ideas. But when the violence of the impres-
sion is once a little abated, the defect of the relation begins
to be better felt; and as the character of a person is nowise
interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary,
it seldom happens that on their account we entertain a lasting
enmitv.

70 Hume's Philosophical Works

To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may
observe, that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from
another by accident, has but little force to excite our passion,
but also that which arises from an acknowledged necessity
and duty. One that has a real design of harming us, pro-
ceeding not from hatred and ill-will, but from justice and
equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree
reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the
knowing cause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little
this phenomenon.

It is evident, in the first place, that this circumstance
is not decisive; and though it mav be able to diminish the
passions, it is seldom it can entirely remove them. How
few criminals are there who have no ill-will to the person that
accuses them, or to the judge that condemns them, even
though they be conscious of their o\\ti deserts ! In like
manner our antagonist in a law-suit, and our competitor for
any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though
we must acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that
their motive is entirely as justifiable as our own.

Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm
from any person, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and it
is with extreme difficulty we allow of his justice and innocence.
This is a clear proof that, independent of the opinion of
iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a natural tendency
to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for reasons
upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here
the idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises
from it.

Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the
opinion of injury; since otherwise it must suffer a consider-
able diminution, which all the passions avoid as much as
possible. The removal of injury may remove the anger,
without proving that the anger arises only from the injury.
The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which
the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other
love; and it is according to their different degrees, and our
particular turn of thinking, that either of the objects prevails
and excites its proper passion.

Of the Passions 71

SECTION IV

OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS

Having given a reason why several actions that cause a
real pleasure or uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a
small one, of the passion of love or hatred towards the actors,
it will be necessary to show wherein consists the pleasure or
uneasiness of many objects which we find by experience to
produce these passions.

According to the preceding system, there is always re-
quired a double relation of impressions and ideas betwLxt
the cause and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred.
But though this be universally true, it is remarkable that the
passion of love may be excited by only one relation of a
different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and the object; or,
more properly speaking, that this relation is always attended
with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any
connection is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned
to the connection, without inquiring into his other qualities.
Thus the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the
mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children,
and a lesser degree of the same affection as the relation
lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but any
other relation without exception. We love our countrymen,
our neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and
even name with ourselves. Every one of these relations is
esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our affection.

There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this,
viz. that acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives
rise to love and kindness. When we have contracted a
habitude and intimacy with any person, though in frequent-
ing his company we have not been able to discover any very
valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we cannot
forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit
we are fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects
of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each
otherj and may be both explained from the same principle.

72 Hume's Philosophical Works

Those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human
nature have observed, that man is altogether insufficient
to support himself, and that, when you loosen all the holds
which he has of external objects, he immediately drops
down into the deepest melancholy and despair. From this,
say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement
in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour
to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid
state into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk
and lively emotion. To this method of thinking I so far
agree, that I own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its
own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign
objects which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate
the spirits. On the appearance of such an object it awakes,
as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide;
the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour
which he cannot command in his solitary and calm moments.
Hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the
liveliest of all objects, viz. a rational and thinking being like
ourselves, who communicates to us all the actions of his
mind, makes us privy to his inmost sentiments and affections,
and lets us see, in the very instant of their production, all the
emotions which are caused by any object. Every lively
idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, because such
an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more sensible
agitation to the mind than any other image or conception.

This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as
the company of strangers is agreeable to us for a short time,
by enlivening our thought, so the company of our relations
and acquaintance must be peculiarly agreeable, because it
has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more durable
influence. Whatever is related to us is conceived in a lively
manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related
object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the entrance,
and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case
is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the
second to education. And as reasoning and education concur
only in producing a lively and strong idea of any object,
so is this the only particular which is common to relation
and acquaintance. This must therefore be the influencing
quality by which they produce all their common effects; and

Of the Passions 73

love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from
the force and liveliness of conception that the passion is
derived. Such a conception is peculiarly agreeable, and
makes us have an affectionate regard for everything that
produces it, when the proper object of kindness and good-
will.

It is obvious that people associate together according to
their particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of
gay tempers naturally love the gay, as the serious bear an
affection to the serious. This not only happens where they
remark this resemblance betwixt themselves and others,
but also by the natural course of the disposition, and by a
certain s\TTipathy which always arises betwixt similar charac-
ters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates after
the manner of a relation by producing a connection of ideas.
Where they do not remark it, it operates by some other
principle; and if this latter principle be similar to the former,
it must be received as a confirmation of the foregoing
reasoning.

The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us,
and conveys a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any
other object to which we are related. This lively idea
changes by degrees into a real impression; these two kinds
of perception being in a great measure the same, and differing
only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change
must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural
temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which
we observe in others, and makes it arise upon any slight
occasion. In that case resemblance converts the idea into
an impression, not only by means of the relation, and by
transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but
also by presenting such materials as to take fire from the
least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from
the resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others
is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since
an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone
common to relation, acquaintance, and resemblance.

The great propensity men have to pride may be considered
as another similar phenomenon. It often happens, that
after we have lived a considerable time in any city, however
at first it might be disagreeable to us, yet as we become

74 Hume's Philosophical Works

familiar with the objects, and contract an acquaintance,
though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion
diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite
passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view
of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers
them to others, which, though perhaps in themselves more
valuable, are less known to it. By the same quality of the
mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and of
all objects that belong to us. They appear in a stronger
light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter subjects
of pride and vanity than any other.

It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear
our acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty
curious phenomena which attend it. It is easy to remark in
common life, that children esteem their relation to their
mother to be weakened, in a great measure, by her second
marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye as if
she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this
happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from
her second marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior ;
but even without any of these considerations, and merely
because she has become part of another family. This also
takes place with regard to the second marriage of a father,
but in a much less degree ; and it is certain the ties of blood
are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the marriage
of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in them-
selves, but much more so when compared.

In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects,
it is requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed
from one to the other, by resemblance, contiguity, or causa-
tion, but also, that it return back from the second to the first
with the same ease and facility. At first sight this may seem
a necessary and unavoidable consequence. If one object
resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble
the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second
object is effect to its cause. It is the same with contiguity;
and therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be
thought that the return of the imagination from the second
to the first must also, in every case, be equally natural as its
passage from the first to the second. But upon further
examination we shall easily discover our mistake. For

Of the Passions y^

supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to
the first, to have also a strong relation to a third object; in
that case the thought, passing from the first object to the
second, return not back with the same facility, though the
relation continues the same, but is readily carried on to the
third object, by means of the new relation which presents
itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. This
new relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and
second objects. The fancy is, by its very nature, wavering
and inconstant, and considers always two objects as more
strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally
easy both in going and returning, than where the transition
is easy onl}^ in one of these motions. The double motion is a
kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the
closest and most intimate manner.

The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation
of child and parent ; and that relation sufiices to convey my
imagination from myself to her with the greatest ease and
facility. But after the imagination is arrived at this point
of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with so many other
relations which challenge its regard, that it knows not which
to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. The
ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and pre-
vent that return of the fancy from her to myself which is
necessary to support the union. The thought has no longer
the vibration requisite to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge
its inclination to change. It goes with facility, but returns
with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation
much weakened from what it would be were the passage open
and easy on both sides.

Now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in the
same degree upon the second marriage of a father; we may
reflect on what has been proved already, that though the
imagination goes easily from the view of a lesser object to
that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility
from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes
from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him
to his second wife, nor considers him as entering into a
different family, but as continuing the head of that family of
which I am myself a part. His superiority prevents the easy
transition of the thought from him to his spouse, but keeps

76 Hume's Philosophical Works

the passage still open for a return to myself along the same
relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new rela-
tion he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of
thought is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the
fancy in its inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still
preserves its full force and influence.

A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because it
is shared with her husband; nor a son his with a parent,
because it is shared with a brother. The third object is here
related to the first as well as to the second ; so that the imagi-
nation goes and comes along all of them with the greatest
facilitv.

SECTION V

OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL

Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for
any person than his power and riches, or a contempt, than
his poverty and meanness : and as esteem and contempt are to
be considered as species of love and hatred, it will be proper
in this place to explain these phenomena.

Here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest diffi-
culty is, not to discover a principle capable of producing such
an effect, but to choose the chief and predominant among
several that present themselves. The satisfaction we take
in the riches of others, and the esteem we have for the pos-
sessors, may be ascribed to three different causes. First, to
the objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages,
which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a
sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or
surveys them. Secondly, to the expectation of advantage
from the rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions.
Thirdly, to sympathy, which makes us partake of the satis-
faction of every one that approaches us. All these principles
may concur in producing the present phenomenon. The
question is, to which of them we ought principally to ascribe it.

It is certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on
agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first

Of the Passions 'j'j

sight, we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what
is beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an
emotion of pleasure or uneasiness ; and though these sensa-
tions appear not much, in our common indolent way of think-
ing, it is easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover
them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects
that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never
present any objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr.
Philips has chosen Cider for the subject of an excellent poem.
Beer would not have been so proper, as being neither so agree-
able to the taste nor eye. But he would certainly have pre-
ferred wine to either of them, could his native country have
afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from
thence, that everything which is agreeable to the senses, is
also, in some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to
the thought an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by
its real application to the bodily organs.

But though these reasons may induce us to comprehend
this delicacy of the imagination among the causes of the
respect which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many
other reasons that may keep us from regarding it as the sole
or principal. For as the ideas of pleasure can have an influ-
ence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them
approach impressions, it is most natural those ideas should
have that influence, which are favoured by most circumstances,
and have a natural tendency to become strong and lively;
such as our ideas of the passions and sensations of any human
creature. Every human creature resembles ourselves, and,
by that means, has an advantage above any other object in
operating on the imagination.

Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the
great influence which all relations have upon it, we shall
easily be persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant
wines, music, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may
become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itself
to them, but will carry its view to the related objects, and,
in particular, to the person who possesses them. And this is
the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image, produces
here a passion towards the person by means of his relation to
the object; so that it is unavoidable but he must enter into
the original conception, since he makes the object of the

78 Hume's Philosophical Works

derivative passion. But if he enters into the original con-
ception, and is considered as enjoying these agreeable objects,
it is sympathy which is properly the cause of the affection;
and the third principle is more powerful and universal than
the first.

Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though
unemployed, naturally cause esteem and respect; and, con-
sequently, these passions arise not from the idea of any
beautiful or agreeable objects. It is true money implies a
kind of representation of such objects by the power it affords
of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be esteemed
proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise
to the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, it is
more natural for us to take a contiguous object, namely, the
satisfaction which this power affords the person who is pos-
sessed of it. And of this we shall be further satisfied, if we
consider that riches represent the goods of life only by means
of the will which employs them; and therefore imply, in
their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be con-
sidered without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and
enjoyments.

This we may confirm by a reflection which to some will
perhaps appear too subtile and refined. I have already
observed that power, as distinguished from its exercise, has
either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a possibility or
probability of existence, by which any object approaches to
reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. I have also
observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy,
appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the
power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the
former case, the objects seem to touch upon the very verge
of reality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction as if
actually in our possession. Now I assert, that where we
esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into
this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without such a
sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give
him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence
upon us. An avaricious man is respected for his money,
though he scarce is possessed of a power ; that is, there scarce
is a probability or even possibility of his employing it in the
acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. To

Of the Passions

79

himself alone this power seems perfect and entire ; and there-
fore we must receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we
can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, or esteem
him upon account of them.

Thus we have found, that the first principle, viz. the agree-
able idea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of,
resolves itself in a great measure into the third, and becomes a
sympathy with the person we esteem or love. Let us now
examine the second principle, viz. the agreeable expectation of
advantage, and see what force we may justly attribute to it.

It is obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly
give their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power
is not to be considered as on the same footing with that which
they afford him of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own
appetites. Self-love approaches the power and exercise very
near each other in the latter case; but in order to produce a
similar effect in the former, we must suppose a friendship and
good-will to be conjoined with the riches. Without that
circumstance it is difficult to conceive on what we can found
our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there
is nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and
respect the rich, even before we discover in them any such
favourable disposition towards us.

But I carry this further, and observe, not only that we
respect the rich and powerful where they show no inclination
to serve us, but also when we lie so much out of the sphere of
their activity, that they cannot even be supposed to be
endowed with that power. Prisoners of war are always
treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and it is
certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any
person. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords
us an argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a
man of birth, but one who is descended from a long succession
of rich and powerful ancestors, and who acquires our esteem
by his relation to persons whom we esteem ? His ancestors,
therefore, though dead, are respected in some measure on
account of their riches, and consequently without any kind
of expectation.

But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to
find instances of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us
observe, with a little attention, those phenomena that occur

8o Hume's Philosophical Works

to us in common life and conversation. A man who is him-
self of a competent fortune, upon coming into company of
strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of
respect and deference, as he is informed of their different
fortunes and conditions; though it is impossible he can ever
propose, and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from
them. A traveller is always admitted into company, and
meets with civility in proportion as his train and equipage
speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In short, the
different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated by
riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors,
strangers as well as acquaintance.

There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn
from the influence of general rules. It may be pretended, that,
being accustomed to expect succour and protection from the
rich and powerful, and to esteem them upon that account, we
extend the same sentiments to those who resemble them in
their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any
advantage. The general rule still prevails, and, by giving a
bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same
manner as if its proper object were real and existent.

But that this principle does not here take place, will easily
appear, if we consider that, in order to establish a general rule,
and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a
certain uniformity in our experience, and a great superiority
of those instances, which are conformable to the rule, above
the contrary. But here the case is quite otherwise. Of a
hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there is not
perhaps one from whom I can expect advantage, so that it is
impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.

Upon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us
an esteem for power and riches, and a contempt for meanness
and poverty, except the pride of sympathy, by which we enter
into the sentiments of rich and poor, and partake of their
pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give satisfaction to their
possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to the beholder
by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling the
original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable
idea or impression is coimected with love, which is an agree-
able passion. It proceeds from a thinking conscious being,
which is the \&ry object of love. From this relation of im-

Of the Passions 8 i

pressions, and identity of ideas^ the passion arises according
to my hypothesis.

The best method of reconcihng us to this opinion is to take
a general survey of the universe, and observe the force of
sympathy through the whole animal creation, and the easy
communication of sentiments from one thinking being to
another. In all creatures that prey not upon others, and are
not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remark-
able desire of company, which associates them together, with-
out any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their
union. This is still more conspicuous in man, as being the
creature of the universe who has the most ardent desire of
society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. We can
form no wish which has not a reference to society. A perfect
solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer.
Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company,
and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. What-
ever other passions we may be actuated by, pride, ambition,
avarice, curiosity, revenge, or lust, the soul or animating
principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have any
force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and
sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of
nature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise
and set at his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases,
and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful
or agreeable to him; he will still be miserable, till you give
him some one person at least with whom he may share his
happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.

This conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we
may confirm by particular instances wherein the force of
sympathy is very remarkable. Most kinds of beauty are
derived from this origin ; and though our first object be some
senseless inanimate piece of matter, it is seldom we rest there,
and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational
creatures. A man who shows us any house or building,
takes particular care, among other things, to point out the
convenience of the apartments, the advantages of their
situation, and the little room lost in the stairs, antechambers^
and passages; and indeed it is evident the chief part of the
beauty consists in these particulars. The observation of
convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty.

II F

82 Hume's Philosophical Works

But after what manner does it give pleasure? It is certain
our own interest is not in the least concerned ; and as this is
a beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, it must delight
us merely by communication, and by our sympathising with
the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his interest
by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction
that the objects naturally occasion in him.

This observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires,
chimneys, coaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every
work of art; it being an universal rule, that their beauty
is chiefly derived from their utility, and from their fitness for
that purpose, to which they are destined. But this is an
advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is there any-
thing but sympathy which can interest the spectator.

It is evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable
than its fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament
or situation will be able to equal this beaut}^ It is the same
case with particular trees and plants, as with the field on
which they grow. I know not but a plain overgrown with
furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill covered
with vines or olive-trees, though it will never appear so to one
who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a
beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what
appears to the senses. Fertility and value have a plain refer-
ence to use; and that to riches, joy, and plenty, in which,
though we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter into them
by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them in some measure
with the proprietor.

There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of
balancing the figures, and placing them with the greatest
exactness on their proper centre of gravity. A figure which
is not justly balanced is disgraceful; and that because it
conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which
ideas are painful, w^hen by sympathy they acquire any degree
of force and vivacity.

Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is
an air of health and vigour, and such a construction of
members as promises strength and activity. This idea of
beauty cannot be accounted for but by sympathy.

In general we may remark, that the minds of men are
mirrors to one another, not only because they reflect each

Of the Passions 85

other's emotions^ but also because those rays of passions,
sentiments^ and opinions, may be often reverberated, and may
decay away by insensible degrees. Thus the pleasure which
a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon
the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem ; which sentiments
again being perceived and sympathised with, increase the
pleasure of the possessor, and, being once more reflected,
become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the
beholder. There is certainly an original satisfaction in riches
derived from that power which they bestow of enjoying all
the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and
essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which
arise from them. One of the most considerable of these
passions is that of love or esteem in others, which, therefore,
proceeds from a sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor.
But the possessor has also a secondary satisfaction in riches,
arising from the love and esteem he acquires by them ; and
this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflection of that
original pleasure which proceeded from himself. This
secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal
recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we
either desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others.
Here then is a third rebound of the original pleasure, after
which it is difficult to distinguish the images and reflections,
by reason of their faintness and confusion.

SECTION VI

OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER

Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of
matter and impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours,
tastes, smells, and other sensible qualities. Ideas never
admit of a total union, but are endowed with a kind of
impenetrability by which they exclude each other, and are
capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by
their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions
are susceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be
blended so perfectly together, that each of them may lose

84 Hume's Philosophical Works

itself, and contribute only to vary that uniform impression
which arises from the whole. Some of the most curious
phenomena of the human mind are derived from this property
of the passions.

In examining those ingredients which are capable of
uniting with love and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some
measure, of a misfortune that has attended every system
of philosophy with which the world has been yet acquainted.
It is commonly found, that in accounting for the operations
of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a number
of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles
we would endeavour to establish, there is always some
phenomenon which is more stubborn, and will not so easily
bend to our purpose. We need not be surprised that this
should happen in natural philosophy. The essence and
composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must
necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concern-
ing them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities.
But as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and
I have used all imaginable caution in forming conclusions
concerning them, I have always hoped to keep clear of those
contradictions which have attended every other system.
Accordingly, the difficulty which I have at present in my eye
is nowise contrary to my system, but only departs a little
from that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal
force and beauty.

The passions of love and hatred are always followed by,
or rather conjoined with, benevolence and anger. It is this
conjunction which chiefly distinguishes these affections
from pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure
emotions in the soul, unattended with any desire, and not
immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred
are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion
which they produce, but carry the mind to something further.
Love is always followed by a desire of the happiness of the
person beloved, and an aversion to his misery: as hatred
produces a desire of the misery, and an aversion to the
happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a difference
betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility,
love and hatred, which in so many other particulars corre-
spond to each other, merits our attention.

Of the Passions 85

The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and
hatred may be accounted for by two different hypotheses.
The first is, that love and hatred have not only a cause which
excites them, viz. pleasure and pain, and an object to which
they are directed, viz. a person or thinking being, but like-
wise an end which they endeavour to attain, viz. the happi-
ness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which
views mixing together, make only one passion. According
to this system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to
another person, and hatred that of misery. The desire and
aversion constitute the very nature of love and hatred. They
are not only inseparable, but the same.

But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though
it is certain we never love any person without desiring his
happiness, nor hate any without wishing his misery, yet these
desires arise only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery
of our friend or enemy being presented by the imagination,
and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They
are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affec-
tions, but not the only ones. The passions may express
themselves in a hundred ways, and may subsist a considerable
time, without our reflecting on the happiness or misery of
their objects; which clearly proves that these desires are
not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential
part of them.

We may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are
passions different from love and hatred, and only conjoined
with them by the original constitution of the mind. As
nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclina-
tions, which she increases, diminishes, or changes according
to the situation of the fluids or solids, she has proceeded
in the same manner with the mind. According as we are
possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of
the happiness or misery of the person who is the object of
these passions, arises in the mind, and varies with each
variation of these opposite passions. This order of things,
abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Love and hatred
might have been unattended with any such desires, or their
particular connection might have been entirely reversed. If
nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect
as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in

86 Hume's Philosophical Works

supposing a desire of producing misery annexed to love, and
of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the passion and
desire be opposite, nature could have altered the sensation
without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that
means made them compatible with each other.

SECTION VII

OF COMPASSION

But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others,
according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary
and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may
be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from
secondary principles. Pity is a concern for, and malice a
joy in, the miser\' of others, without any friendship or enmity
to occasion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers,
and such as are perfectly indifferent to us : and if our ill-will
to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly
speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine these
affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be
secondary ones, arising from original affections, which are
varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination.

It will be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the
precedent reasoning concerning sympathy. We have a lively
idea of everything related to us. All human creatures are
related to us by resemblance. Their persons, therefore,
their interests, their passions, their pains and pleasures,
must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an
emotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is
easily converted into an impression. If this be true in
general, it must be more so of affliction and sorrow. These
have always a stronger and more lasting influence than any
pleasure or enjo}Tnent.

A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of
grief, terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet
represents in the person he introduces. As many tragedies
end happily, and no excellent one can be composed without
some reverses of fortune, the spectator must sympathise

Of the Passions 87

with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well
as every other passion. Unless therefore it be asserted, that
every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original
quality, and is not derived from the general principle of
sympathy above explained, it must be allowed that all of
them arise from that principle. To except any one in par-
ticular must appear highly unreasonable. As they are all
first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards
appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their
appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in
every case the same, the transition must arise from the same
principle. I am at least sure that this method of reasoning
woiild be considered as certain, either in natural philosophy
or common life.

Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the
contiguity, and even sight of the object, which is a proof
that It is derived from the imagination ; not to mention that
women and children are most subject to pity, as being most
guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, which makes
them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands
of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those whom
they find in any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who
derive this passion from I know not what subtile reflections
on the instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same
miseries we behold, will find this observation contrary to
them among a great many others, which it were easy to
produce.

There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable
phenomenon of this passion, which is, that the communicated
passion of sympathy sometimes acquires strength from the
weakness of its original, and even arises by a transition from
affections which have no existence. Thus, when a person
obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune, we
are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the less sense
he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and
indifference he shows in its enjoyment. In like manner, a
man who is not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented
on account of his patience ; and if that virtue extends so far
as utterly to remove all sense of uneasiness, it still further
increases our compassion. When a person of merit falls
into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune, we form

88 Hume's Philosophical Works

a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy from the
cause to the usual effect, first conceive a hvely idea of his
sorrow, and then fee! an impression of it, entirely overlooking
that greatness of mind which elevates him above such
emotions, or only considering it so far as to increase our
admiration, love, and tenderness for him. We find from
experience, that such a degree of passion is usually con-
nected with such a misfortune; and though there be an
exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected
by the general rule, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the
passion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner
as if the person were really actuated by it. From the same
principles we blush for the conduct of those who behave
themselves fooHshly before us, and that though they show
no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their
folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but it is of a partial
kind, and views its objects only on one side, withouc con-
sidering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would
entirely destroy that emotion which arises from the first
appearance.

We have also instances wherein an indifference and in-
sensibility under misfortune increases our concern for the
misfortunate, even though the indifference proceed not from
any virtue and magnanimity. It is an aggravation of a.
murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in
perfect security; as historians readily obser\-e of an infant
prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is
more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his
miserable condition. As we ourselves are here acquainted
with the wretched situation of the person, it gives us a lively
idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion that
generally attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively,
and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security
and indifference which we observe in the person himself. A
contrast of any kind never fails to affect the imagination,
especially when presented by the subject; and it is on the
imagination that pity entirely depends.^

^ To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the
imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents
our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is
opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, exclud-
ing only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.

Of the Passions 89

SECTION VIII

OF MALICE AND ENVY

V\'e must now proceed to account for the passion of malice,
which imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love,
and gives us a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others,
without any offence or injury on their part.

So httle are men governed by reason in their sentiments
and opinions, that they always judge more of objects by
comparison than from their intrinsic worth and value.
When the mind considers, or is accustomed to any degree of
perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really estimable,
has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as
what is defective and ill. This is an original quality of the
soul, and similar to what we have every day experience of in
our bodies. Let a man heat one hand and cool the other;
the same water will at the same time seem both hot and cold,
according to the disposition of the different organs. A small
degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the
same sensation as if less than it really is, and even sometmies
as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a
violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure ;
as, on the other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one,
is doubly grievous and uneasy.

This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and
sensations. But there may arise some difficulty with regard
to our ideas and objects. When an object augments or
diminishes to the eye or imagination, from a comparison
with others, the image and idea of the object are still the
same, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain
or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of light,
and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the
very same manner, whether a great or small object has pre-
ceded; nor does even the imagination alter the dimensions
of its object on account of a comparison with others. The
question then is, how, from the same impression, and the
same idea, we can form such different judgments concerning

90 Hume's Philosophical Works

the same object^ and at one time admire its bulk, and at
another despise its littleness? This variation in our judg-
ments must certainly proceed from a variation in some per-
ception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate
impression or idea of the object, it must lie in some other
impression that accompanies it.

In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two
principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in
the progress of this Treatise; the other has been already
accounted for. I believe it may safely be established for a
general maxim, that no object is presented to the senses, nor
image formed in the fancy, but what is accompanied with
some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to it;
and however custom may make us insensible of this sensa-
tion, and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, it
will be easy, by careful and exact experiments, to separate
and distinguish them. For, to instance only in the cases of
extension and number, it is evident that any very bulky
object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of
mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous collection
of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the
mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which
arises on the appearance of such objects is one of the most
lively pleasures which human nature is capable of enjoying.
Now, as this admiration increases or diminishes by the
increase or diminution of the objects, we may conclude,
according to our foregoing principles,^ that it is a compound
effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several effects
which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then,
of extension, and every unit of number, has a separate
emotion attending it when conceived by the mind; and
though that emotion be not always agreeable, yet, by its
conjunction with others, and by its agitating the spirits to a
just pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration,
which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect
to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with
respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty,
happiness and misery, and other objects of that kind, which
are always attended with an evident emotion.

The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our
1 Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.

Of the Passions 91

adherence to general rules ; which has such a mighty influence
on the actions and understanding, and is able to impose on
the very senses. When an object is found by experience to
be always accompanied with another, whenever the first
object appears, though changed in very material circum-
stances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second,
and form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as
if we had inferred its existence by the justest and most
authentic conclusion of our understanding. Nothing can
undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correct-
ing this false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem
to authorise its errors.

The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to
the influence of comparison above mentioned, is very short
and decisive. Every object is attended with some emotion
proportioned to it; a great object with a great emotion, a
small object with a small emotion. A great object, therefore,
succeeding a small one, makes a great emotion succeed a
small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small one
becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary propor-
tion. But as there is a certain degree of an emotion which
commonly attends every magnitude of an object, when the
emotion increases, we naturally imagine that the object has
likewise increased. The eft'ect conveys our view to its usual
cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of
the object; nor do we consider that comparison may change
the emotion without changing anything in the object.
Those who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of
optics, and know how we transfer the judgments and con-
clusions of the understanding to the senses, will easily con-
ceive this whole operation.

But leaving this new discovery of an impression that
secretly attends every idea, we must at least allow of that
principle from whence the discovery arose, that objects appear
greater or less by a comparison with others. We have so many
instances of this, that it is impossible we can dispute its
veracity; and it is from this principle I derive the passions of
malice and envy.

It is evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or
uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circum-
stances, in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate

92 Hume's Philosophical Works

or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power,
and merit, and reputation, which we think ourselves possessed
of. Now, as we seldom judge of objects from their intrinsic
value, but form our notions of them from a comparison with
other objects, it follows, that according as we observe a
greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, we
must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent
pain or pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more
lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of our misery.
The former, therefore, produces delight, and the latter
uneasiness.

Here then is a kind of pity reversed, or contrary sensations
arising in the beholder, from those which are felt by a person
whom he considers. In general we may observe that, in all
kinds of comparison, an object makes us always receive from
another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to
what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey.
A small object makes a great one appear still greater. A
great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of
itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure
by its contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is aug-
mented by it; as, on the other hand, beauty, which of itself
produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by the con-
trast with anything ugly, whose deformity it augments. The
case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and misery.
The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us
pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with
our own. His pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but
augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure.

Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reversed
sensation from the happiness and misery of others, since we
find the same comparison may give us a kind of malice
against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and
grieve for our pleasures. Thus the prospect of past pain is
agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition;
as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness,
when we enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The com-
parison being the same as when we reflect on the sentiments
of others, must be attended with the same effects.

Nay, a person may extend this malice against himself,
even to his present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly

Of the Passions 93

to seek affliction, and increase his pains and sorrows. This
may happen upon two occasions. First, Upon the distress
and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to him. Secondly,
Upon the feehng any remorses for a crime of which he has
been guilty. It is from the principle of comparison that
both these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who
indulges himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under
affliction, feels the reflected uneasiness from his friend more
sensibly by a comparison with the original pleasure which he
himself enjoys. This contrast, indeed, ought also to enliven
the present pleasure. But as grief is here supposed to be the
predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, and
is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the
contrary affection. It is the same case with those penances
which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and fail-
ings. When a criminal reflects on the punishment he
deserves, the idea of it is magnified by a comparison with his
present ease and satisfaction, which forces him, in a manner,
to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a contrast.
This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well
as of malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies
in this, that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of
another, which, by comparison, diminishes our idea of our
own: whereas malice is the unprovoked desire of producing
evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from comparison.
The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly
superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to over-
shade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even
in the case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance,
in order to augment still more the idea of ourself. When this
distance diminishes, the comparison is less to our advantage,
and consequently gives us less pleasure, and is even disagree-
able. Hence raises that species of envy which men feel, when
they perceive their inferiors approaching or overtaking them
in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we may see
the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who com-
pares himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the com-
parison; and when the inferiority decreases by the elevation
of the inferior, what should only have been a decrease of
pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a new comparison with its
preceding condition.

94 Hume's Philosophical Works

It is worthy of observation concerning that envy which
arises from a superiority in others, that it is not the great
disproportion betwixt ourself and another which produces
it; but, on the contrary, our proximity. A common soldier
bears no such envy to his general as to his sergeant or corporal ;
nor does an eminent writer meet with so great jealousy in
common hackney scribblers, as in authors that more nearly
approach him. It may indeed be thought that the greater
the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from
the comparison. But we may consider, on the other hand,
that the great disproportion cuts off the relation, and either
keeps us from comparing ourselves with what is remote from
us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison. Resemblance
and proximity always produce a relation of ideas ; and where
you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring
two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting
quality to join them in the imagination, it is impossible they
can remain long united, or have any considerable influence
on each other.

I have observed, in considering the nature of ambition,
that the great feel a double pleasure in authority, from the
comparison of their own condition with that of their slaves;
and that this comparison has a double influence, because it
is natural, and presented by the subject. When the fancy,
in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the one
object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great measure
broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins,
as it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends
every object seems not greater in that case by succeeding a
less of the same kind ; but these two impressions are distinct,
and produce their distinct effects, without any communication
together. The want of relation in the ideas breaks the
relation of the impressions, and by such a separation prevents
their mutual operation and influence.

To confimi this we may observe, that the proximity in the
degree of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but
must be assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to
envy a philosopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different
nation, or a different age. All these differences prevent or
weaken the comparison, and consequently the passion.

This too is the reason why all objects appear great or little.

Of the Passions 95

merely by a comparison with those of the same species. A
mountain neither magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes ;
but when a Flemish and a Welsh horse are seen together, the
one appears greater and the other less than when viewed
apart.

From the same principle we may account for that remark
of historians, that any party in a civil war always choose to
call in a foreign enemy at any hazard, rather than submit to
their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies this remark to the
wars of Italy, where the relations betwixt the different states
are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language, and
contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with
superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make
it likewise more grievous, and cause men to search for some
other superiority, which may be attended with no relation,
and by that means may have a less sensible influence on the
imagination. The mind quickly perceives its several advan-
tages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to be most
uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations,
seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and
by breaking that association of ideas, which renders the com-
parison so much more natural and efficacious. When it
cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to
remove the superiority ; and this is the reason why travellers
are commonly so lavish of their praises to the Chinese and
Persians, at the same time that they depreciate those neigh-
bouring nations which may stand upon a foot of rivalship
with their native country.

These examples from history and common experience are
rich and curious ; but we may find parallel ones in the arts,
which are no less remarkable. Should an author compose a
treatise, of which one part was serious and profound, another
light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange a
mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of
art and criticism. These rules of art are founded on the
qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature,
which requires a consistency in every performance, is that
which renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from
one passion and disposition to a quite different one. Yet
this makes us not blame Mr. Prior for joining his Alma and
his Solomon in the same volume; though that admirable

96 Hume's Philosophical Works

poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as
well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the
reader should peruse these two compositions without any
interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of
passions : why ? but because he considers these performances
as entirely different, and, by this break in the ideas, breaks
the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from
influencing or contradicting the other.

An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture,
would be monstrous; though we place two pictures of so
opposite a character in the same chamber, and even close by
each other, without any scruple or difficulty.

In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by com-
parison, or by the passions they separately produce, unless
they be united together by some relation which may cause an
easy transition of the ideas, and consequently of the emotions
or impressions attending the ideas, and may preserve the one
impression in the passage of the imagination to the object of
the other. This principle is very remarkable, because it is
analogous to what we have observed both concerning the
imder standing and the passions. Suppose two objects to be
presented to me, which are not connected by any kind of
relation. Suppose that each of these objects separately
produces a passion, and that these two passions are in them-
selves contrary; we find from experience, that the want of
relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety
of the passions, and that the break in the transition of the
thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents
their opposition. It is the same case with comparison; and
from both these phenomena we may safely conclude, that
the relation of ideas must forward the transition of impres-
sions, since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to
separate what naturally should have operated upon each
other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any
usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its
presence contributes to the production of the effect.

Of the Passions 97

SECTION IX

OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER WITH
COMPASSION AND MALICE

Thus we have endeavoured to account for pity and malice.
Both these affections arise from the imagination, according
to the Hght in which it places its object. When our fancy-
considers directly the sentiments of others, and enters deep
into them, it makes us sensible of all the passions it surveys,
but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. On the con-
trary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own,
we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz.
a joy from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy.
But these are only the first foundations of the affections of
pity and malice. Other passions are afterwards confounded
with them. There is always a mixture of love or tenderness
with pity, and of hatred or anger with maHce. But it must
be confessed that this mixture seems at first sight to be con-
tradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and
malice a joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should
naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred, and malice,
love. This contradiction I endeavour to reconcile, after the
following manner.

In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required
a double relation of impressions and ideas ; nor is one relation
sufficient to produce this effect. But that we may under-
stand the full force of this double relation, we must consider,
that it is not the present sensation alone or momentary pain
or pleasure which determines the character of any passion,
but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginnmg to the
end. One impression may be related to another, not only
when their sensations are resembling, as we have all along
supposed in the preceding cases, but also when their impulses
or directions are similar and correspondent. This cannot
take place with regard to pride and humiUty, because these
are only pure sensations, without any direction or tendency
to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of this

II G

98 Hume's Philosophical Works

peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are
attended with a certain appetite or desire^ such as those of
love and hatred.

Benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire
of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his
miser)', as anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a
desire of the miser)' of the person hated, and an aversion to
his happiness. A desire, therefore, of the happiness of
another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to benevo-
lence ; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness,
are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire of happi-
ness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the
contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence,
and malice to anger; and as benevolence has been already
found to be connected with love, by a natural and original
quality, and anger with hatred, it is by this chain the passions
of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred.

This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A
man, who, from any motives, has entertained a resolution
of performing an action, naturally runs into every other view
or motive which may fortify that resolution, and give it
authority and influence on the mind. To confirm us in any
design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from,
honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and
benevolence, malice and anger, being the same desires arising
from different principles, should so totally mix together as
to be undistinguishable ? As to the connection betwixt
benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being original and
primary, it admits of no difficulty.

We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevo-
lence and anger, and, consequently, love and hatred, arise
when our happiness or misery have any dependence on the
happiness or misery of another person, without any further
relation. I doubt not but this experiment will appear so
singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.
Suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek
employment in a town that is not able to maintain both, it is
plain the success of one is perfectly incompatible with that of
the other; and that whatever is for the interest of either is
contrary to that of his rival, and so vice versa. Suppose, again,
that two merchants, though living in different parts of the

Of the Passions 99

world, should enter into co-partnership together, the advan-
tage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or
loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily attends
both. Now, it is evident that, in thefirst case, hatred always
follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second,
love arises from their union. Let us consider to what prin-
ciple we can ascribe these passions.

It is plain they arise, not from the double relations of im-
pressions and ideas, if we regard only the present sensation.
For, taking the first case of rivalship, though the pleasure and
advantage of an antagonist necessarily causes my pain and
loss, yet, to counterbalance this, his pain and loss causes my
pleasure and advantage ; and,supposinghim to be unsuccessful,
I may, by this means, receive from him a superior degree of
satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a partner
rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal
proportion; and it is easy to imagine that the latter sentiment
may, in some cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune
of a rival or partner be good or bad, I always hate the former
and love the latter.

This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or
connection betwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother
or countryman. A rival has almost as close a relation to me
as a partner. For, as the pleasure of the latter causes my
pleasure, and his pain my pain ; so the pleasure of the former
causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The connection,
then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and if, in
the one case, the cause and effect has a further relation of
resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other;
which, being also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter
pretty equal.

The only explication, then, we can give of this phenomena,
is derived from that principle of a parallel direction above
mentioned. Our concern for our own interest gives us a
pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a partner,
after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a sensation
correspondent to those which appear in any person who is
present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for
our interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure,and a pleasure
in the pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of
sentiments as arises from comparison and malice. Since,

loo Hume's Philosophical Works

therefore^ a parallel direction of the affections, proceeding
from interest, can give rise to benevolence or anger, no wonder
the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and from
comparison, should have the same effect.

In general we may obseive, that it is impossible to do good
to others, from whatever motive, without feeling some touches
of kindness and good-will towards them; as the injuries we
do not only cause hatred in the person who suffers them, but
even in ourselves. These phenomena, indeed, may in part be
accounted for from other principles.

But here there occurs a considerable objection, which it
will be necessary to examine before we proceed any further.
I have endeavoured to prove that power and riches, or
poverty and meanness, which give rise to love or hatred,
without producing any original pleasure or uneasiness, operate
upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived from a
sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce
in the person who possesses them. From a sympathy with
his pleasure there arises love ; from that with his uneasiness,
hatred. But it is a maxim which I have just now established,
and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the
phenomena of pity and malice, " That it is not the present
sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines
the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency
of it from the beginning to the end." For this reason, pity
or a sympathy with pain produces love, and that because it
interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives
us a secondary sensation correspondent to the primary, in
which it has the same influence with love and benevolence.
Since, then, this rule holds good in one case, why does it not
prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness
ever produce any passion beside good-will and kindness.?
Is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning,
and run from one principle to its contrary, according to the
particular phenomenon which he would explain ?

I have mentioned two different causes from which a transi-
tion of passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and
impressions, and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the
tendency and direction of any two desires which arise from
different principles. Now I assert, that when a sympathy
with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by

^<7

Of the Passions loi

the former cause ; when strong, it produces love or tenderness
by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing difficulty,
which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on such
evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even
though it were not necessary to the explication of any
phenomenon.

It is certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the
present moment, but that we often feel, by communication,
the pains and pleasures of others which are not in being,
and which we only anticipate by the force of imagination.
For, supposing I saw a person perfectly unknown to me, who,
while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under
foot by horses, I should immediately run to his assistance;
and in this I should be actuated by the same principle of
sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows
of a stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sym-
pathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an
impression, it is evident that, in considering the future
possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter
into it with so vivid aconceptionas to make it our own concern,
and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures which
neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have
any real existence.

But however we may look forward to the future in
sympathising with any person, the extending of our sympathy
depends in a great measure upon our sense of his present
condition. It is a great effort of imagination to form such
lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to
feel these very sentiments; but it is impossible we could
extend this sympathy to the future without being aided by
some circumstance in the present, which strikes upon us in a
lively manner. When the present misery of another has any
strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is
not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses
its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively
notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past,
present, or future; possible, probable, or certain. By
means of this lively notion I am interested in them, take
part with them, and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast,
conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I diminish
the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the

I02 Hume's Philosophical Works

related ideas ; as pipes can convey no more water than what
arises at the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the
future prospect which is necessarv- to interest me perfectly
in the fortune of another. I may feel the present impression,
but carry my S}Tnpathy no further, and never transfuse
the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related
objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this
feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected
with all the passions related to it: but as I am not so much
interested as to concern myself in his good fortune as well as
his bad, I never feel the extensive S}Tnpathy, nor the passions
related to it.

Now, in order to know what passions are related to these
different kinds of S}Tnpathy, we must consider that benevo-
lence is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of the
person beloved, and a pain proceeding from his pain: from
which correspondence of impressions there arises a subsequent
desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. In order,
then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, it
is requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspon-
dent to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one
of them alone sufficient for that purpose. When we s}™-
pathise only with one impression, and that a painful one,
this s}-mpathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account
of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as the extensive
or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first
s>TTipathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred
depends upon the same principle. A strong impression,
when communicated, gives a double tendency of the passions,
which is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of
direction, however painful the first impression might have
been. A weak impression that is painful is related to anger
and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence,
therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree
strongly sympathised with: hatred or contempt from a
small degree, or one weakly s\Tnpathised with; which is the
principle I intended to prove and explain.

Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle,
but also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces
contempt; but a degree beyond causes compassion and
good-will. We may undervalue a peasant or servant; but

Of the Passions 103

when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted
in very Hvely colours, we sympathise with him in his afflic-
tions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and
benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions,
according to its different degrees. The passions, therefore,
must depend upon principles that operate in such certain
degrees, according to my hypothesis. The increase of the
sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase of
the misery.

A barren and desolate country always seems ugly and
disagreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for
the inhabitants. This deformity, however, proceeds in a
great measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has
been already observed; but it is only a weak one, and reaches
no further than the immediate sensation, which is disagree-
able. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent senti-
ments; because we there enter so deep into the interests
of the miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity,
as well as feel their adversity.

But though the force of the impression generally produces
pity and benevolence, it is certain that, by being carried too
far, it ceases to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be
worth our notice. When the uneasiness is either small in
itself, or remote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor
is able to convey an equal concern for the future and contin-
gent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its acquir-
ing greater force, we become so interested in the concerns
of the person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad
fortune; and from that complete sympathy there arises
pity and benevolence. But it will easily be imagined, that
where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it
may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double
sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though
every one, but especially women, are apt to contract a kind-
ness for criminals who go to the scaffold, and readily imagine
them to be uncommonly handsome and well-shaped; yet
one who is present at the cruel execution of the rack, feels
no such tender emotions ; but is in a manner overcome with
horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by
any opposite sympathy.

But the instance which makes the most clearly for my

I04 Hume's Philosophical Works

hypothesis, is that wherein, by a change of the objects, we
separate the double sympathy even from a middHng degree
of the passion; in which case we find that pity, instead of
producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to
the contrary affection. When we observe a person in mis-
fortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author
of that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred,
and is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our
compassion. Now, for what reason should the same passion
of pity produce love to the person who suffers the misfortune,
and hatred to the person who causes it; unless it be because,
in the latter case, the author bears a relation only to the
misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry
our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well
as are sensible of his affliction ?

I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that
this phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to
cause love, may contribute to the production of the kindness
which we naturally bear our relations and acquaintance.
Custom and relation make us enter deeply into the senti-
ments of others ; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend
them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and
operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their
pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force
of sympathy. Nothing that concerns them is indifferent
to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the natural
attendant of love, it readily produces that affection.

SECTION X

OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT

There now remains only to explain the passions of respect
and contempt, along with the amorous affection, in order to
understand all the passions which have any mixture of love
or hatred. Let us begin with respect and contempt.

In considering the qualities and circumstances of others,
we may either regard them as they really are in themselves ;
or may make a comparison betwixt them and our own

Of the Passions 105

qualities and circumstances ; or may join these two methods
of consideration. The good quaUties of others, from the
first point of view, produce love ; from the second, humility ;
and, from the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two
passions. Their bad qualities, after the same manner, cause
either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light
in which we survey them.

That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of
humility in respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very
feeling or appearance, to require any particular proof. That
this mixture arises from a tacit comparison of the person
contemned or respected with ourselves, is no less evident.
The same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt,
by his condition and talents, according as the person who
considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or superior.
In changing the point of view, though the object may remain
the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which
is the cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions,
therefore, arise from our observing the proportion, that is,
from a comparison.

I have already observed, that the mind has a much
stronger propensity to pride than to humility, and have
endeavoured, from the principles of human nature, to assign
a cause for this phenomenon. Wliether my reasoning be
received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears
in many instances. Among the rest, it is the reason why
there is a must greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of
humility in respect, and why we are more elevated with the
view of one below us, than mortified with the presence of one
above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture of
pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible:
whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable
ingredient than humility. The passion of vanity is so
prompt, that it rouses at the least call; while humility
requires a stronger impulse to make it exert itself.

But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture
takes place only in some cases, and appears not on every
occasion. All those objects which cause love, when placed
on another person, are the causes of pride when transferred
to ourselves ; and consequently ought to be causes of humility
as well as love while they belong to others, and are only com-

io6 Hume's Philosophical Works

pared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner
every quality, which, by being directly considered, produces
hatred, ought always to give rise to pride by comparison,
and, by a mixture of these passions of hatred and pride, ought
to excite contempt or scorn. The difficulty then is, why any
objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and produce not
always the mixed passions of respect and contempt.

I have supposed all along that the passions of love and
pride, and those of humility and hatred, are similar in their
sensations, and that the two former are always agreeable,
and that the two latter painful. But though this be univer-
sally true, it is observable, that the two agreeable as well as
the two painful passions have some differences, and even
contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates
and exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though
at the same time love or tenderness is rather found to weaken
and enfeeble it. The same difference is observable betwixt
the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred bestow a new force
on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and shame
deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions,
it will be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember
that pride and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and
humility enfeeble it.

From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt
love and hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes
them always be excited by the same objects, yet this other
contrariety is the reason why they are excited in very
different degrees. Genius and learning are pleasant and
magnificent objects, and by both these circumstances are
adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by
their pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are disagree-
able and mean, which in the same manner gives them a double
connection with humility, and a single one with hatred. We
may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though the same
object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred,
according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces
either the two former or the two latter passions in the same
proportion.

It is here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty above
mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred,
and does not always produce respect or contempt, by a

Of the Passions 107

mixture of humility or pride. No quality in another gives
rise to humility by comparison, unless it would have pro-
duced pride by being placed in ourselves ; and, vice versa, no
object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have
produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident,
objects always produce by comparison a sensation directly
contrary to their original one. Suppose, therefore, an object
to be presented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love,
but imperfectly to excite pride, this object, belonging to
another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to
a small one of humility by comparison; and consequently
that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able
to convert the love into respect. This is the case with good-
nature, good-humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many
other qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce
love in others ; but not so great a tendency to excite pride in
ourselves: for which reason the view of them, as belonging
to another person, produces pure love, with but a small
mixture of humility and respect. It is easy to extend the
same reasoning to the opposite passions.

Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to
account for a pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we
commonly keep at a distance such as we contemn, and allow
not our inferiors to approach too near even in place and
situation. It has already been observed, that almost every
kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas
of number and extension, much more those of such objects
as are esteemed of consequence in life, and fix our attention.
It is not with entire indifference we can survey either a rich
man or a poor one, but must feel some faint touches, at least,
of respect in the former case, and of contempt in the latter.
These two passions are contrary to each other; but in order
to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must be some
way related; otherwise the affections are totally separate
and distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place
wherever the persons become contiguous ; which is a general
reason why we are uneasy at seeing such disproportioned
objects as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a
porter, in that situation.

This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator,
must be more sensible to the superior; and that because the

io8 Hume's Philosophical Works

near approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill-
breeding, and shows that he is not sensible of the dispropor-
tion, and is no way affected by it. A sense of superiority
in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep them-
selves at a distance from him, and determines them to
redouble the marks of respect and reverence, when they are
obliged to approach him; and where they do not obser/e
that conduct, it is a proof they are not sensible of his
superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any great
differejtce in the degrees of any quality is called a distance by
a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear,
is founded on natural principles of the imagination. A great
difference inclines us to produce a distance. The ideas of
distance and difference are, therefore, connected together.
Connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and this is
in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have
occasion to observe afterwards.

SECTION XI

OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES

Of all the compound passions which proceed from a
mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one
better deserves our attention, than that love which arises
betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence,
as those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords
us an incontestable argument. It is plain that this affection,
in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction of
three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing
sensation arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for
generation; and a generous kindness or good-will. The
origin of kindness from beauty may be explained from the
foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily
appetite is excited by it.

The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain
degree, is evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong
connection with all the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth,
vanity, and kindness, are all incentives to this desire, as well

Of the Passions 109

as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the other
hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility, are destructive
of it. From this quality, it is easily conceived why it should
be connected with the sense of beauty.

But there is another principle that contributes to the same
effect. I have observed that the parallel direction of the
desires is a real relation, and, no less than a resemblance in
their sensation, produces a connection among them. That
we may fully comprehend the extent of this relation, we
must consider that any principal desire may be attended
with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to
which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means
related to the principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be
considered as the primary inclination of the soul, and the
desire of approaching the meat as the secondary one, since it
is absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. If
an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to
approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as
on the contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a
distance, is contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our
inclination to them. Now, it is plain, that beauty has the
first effect, and deformity the second; which is the reason
why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals,
and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury
dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable
to the appetite for generation.

From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel
desire, there arises such a connection betwixt the sense of
beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they
become in a manner inseparable ; and we find from experience,
that it is indifferent which of them advance first, since any
of them is almost sure to be attended with the related affec-
tions. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a
momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the
same time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as
there are many, who begin with kindness and esteem for the
wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the
other passions. But the most common species of love is that
which first arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself
into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness or
esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to

iio Hume's Philosophical Works

unite easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined
passion of the soul, the other the most gross and vulgar.
The love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them,
and partakes of both their natures; from whence it proceeds,
that it is so singularly fitted to produce both.

This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is
unavoidable on any hypothesis. The three affections which
compose this passion are evidently distinct, and has each of
them its distinct object. It is certain, therefore, that it is
only by their relation they produce each other. But the
relation of passions is not alone sufficient. It is likewise
necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty
of one person never inspires us with love for another. This
then is a sensible proof of the double relation of impressions
and ideas. From one instance so evident as this we may
form a judgment of the rest.

This may also sen^e in another view to illustrate what I
have insisted on concerning the origin of pride and humility,
love and hatred. I have observed, that though self be the
object of the first set of passions, and some other person of
the second, yet these objects cannot alone be the causes of
the passions, as having each of them a relation to two con-
trary affections, which must from the very first moment
destroy each other. Here then is the situation of the mind,
as I have already described it. It has certain organs naturally
fitted to produce a passion; that passion, when produced,
naturally turns the view to a certain object. But this not
being sufficient to produce the passion, there is required some
other emotion, which, by a double relation of impressions and
ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow on them
their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable
with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only
the object, but also the cause of the appetite. We not only
turn our view to it, when actuated by that appetite, but the
reflecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. But as this
cause loses its force by too great frequency, it is necessary it
should be quickened by some new impulse; and that impulse
we find to arise from the beauty of the person ; that is, from
a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this double
relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct
cause and object, how much more so where it has only a
distinct object without any determinate cause!

Of the Passions i i i

SECTION XII

OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS

But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from
their mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to
the same affections as they display themselves in brutes, we
may observe, not only that love and hatred are common to
the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that their causes,
as above explained, are of so simple a nature that they may
easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. There is no
force of reflection or penetration required. Everything is
conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar
to man, or any one species of animals. The conclusion from
this is obvious in favour of the foregoing system.

Love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the
same species, but extends itself further, and comprehends
almost every sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally
loves a man above his own species, and very commonly meets
with a return of affection.

As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures
or pains of the imagination, they can judge of objects only
by the sensible good or evil which they produce, and from
that must regulate their affections towards them. Accord-
ingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their
love or hatred; and that, by feeding and cherishing any
animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and
abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and
ill-will.

Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our
species ; and that because their thoughts are not so active as
to trace relations, except in very obvious instances. Yet it
is easy to remark, that on some occasions it has a considerable
influence upon them. Thus, acquaintance, which has the
same effect as relation, always produces love in animals,
either to men or to each other. For the same reason, any
likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox con-
fined to a park with horses, will naturally join their company,

112 Hume's Philosophical Works

if I may so speak^ but always leaves it to enjoy that of his
own specieSj where he has the choice of both.

The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a
peculiar instinct in animals, as well as in our species.

It is evident that sympathy, or the communication of
passions, takes place among animals, no less than among
men. Fear, anger, courage, and other affections, are fre-
quently communicated from one animal to another, without
their knowledge of that cause which produced the original
passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and pro-
duces almost all the same consequences, and excites the same
emotions, as in our species. The bowlings and lamentations
of a dog produce a sensible concern in his fellows. And it is
remarkable, that though almost all animals use in play the
same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a
lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws ; an ox, his horns ; a dog, his
teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid
harming their companion, even though they have nothing
to fear from his resentment; which is an evident proof of the
sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure.

Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated
when they hunt in a pack, than when they pursue their game
apart; and it is evident this can proceed from nothing but
from sympathy. It is also well know to hunters, that this
effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too great a
degree, where two packs that are strangers to each other are
joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain
this phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in
ourselves.

Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals.
They are perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less
effort of thought and imagination.

4

PART III

OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS

SECTION I

OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY

We come now to explain the direct passions, or the impres-
sions which arise immediately from good or evil, from pain
or pleasure. Of this kind are, desire and aversion, grief and
joy, hope and fear.

Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there
is none more remarkable than the will ; and though, properly
speaking, it be not comprehended among the passions, yet,
as the full understanding of its nature and properties is
necessary to the explanation of them, we shall here make
it the subject of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed,
that, by the will, I mea.n nothing but the internal impression
^ve feel, and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to
any neiv motion of our body, or new perception of our mind.
This impression, like the preceding ones of pride and humility,
love and hatred, it is impossible to define, and needless to
describe any further; for which reason we shall cut off all
those definitions and distinctions with which philosophers
are wont to perplex rather than clear up this question ; and
entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that long-
disputed question concerning liberty and necessity, which
occurs so naturally in treating of the will.

It is universally acknowledged that the operations of
external bodies are necessary; and that, in the communica-
tion of their motion, in their attraction, and mutual cohesion,
there are not the least traces of indifference or liberty. Every
object is determined by an absolute fate to a certain degree
and direction of its motion, and can no more depart from
that precise line in which it moves, than it can convert itself

II 113 H

114 Hume's Philosophical Works

into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The
actions, therefore, of matter, are to be regarded as instances
of necessary actions ; and whatever is, in this respect, on the
same footing with matter, must be acknowledged to be neces-
sary. That we may know whether this be the case with
the actions of the mind, we shall begin with examining
matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in
its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body
or action to be the infallible cause of another.

It has been observed already, that in no single instance
the ultimate connection of any objects is discoverable either
by our senses or reason, and that we can never penetrate so
far into the essence and construction of bodies, as to perceive
the principle on which their mutual influence depends. It
is their constant union alone with which we are acquainted ;
and it is from the constant union the necessity arises. If
objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with
each other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and
effect; and even after all, the necessity which enters into that
idea, is nothing but a determination of the mind to pass
from one object to its usual attendant, and infer the existence
of one from that of the other. Here then are two particulars
which we are to consider as essential to necessity, viz. the
constant union and the inference of the mind ; and wherever
we discover these, we must aclcnowledge a necessity. As the
actions of matter have no necessity but what is derived from
these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into the
essence of bodies we discover their connection, the absence
of this insight, while the union and inference remain, will
never, in any case, remove the necessity. It is the observa-
tion of the union which produces the inference; for which
reason it might be thought sufficient, if we prove a constant
union in the actions of the mind, in order to establish the
inference along with the necessity of these actions. But that
I may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall examine
these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience
that our actions have a constant union with out motives,
tempers, and circumstances, before I consider the inferences
we draw from it.

To this end a very slight and general view of the common
course of human afiairs will be sufficient. There is no light

Of the Passions i i 5

in -which we can take them that does not confirm this principle.
Whether we consider mankind according to the difference of
sexes, ages, governments, conditions, or methods of educa-
tion; the same uniformity and regular operation of natural
principles are discernible. Like causes still produce like
effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the
elements and powers of nature.

There are different trees which regularly produce fruit,
whose relish is different from each other; and this regularity
will be admitted as an instance of necessity and causes in
external bodies. But are the products of Guienne and of
Champagne more regularly different than the sentiments,
actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the one are
distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their
delicacy and softness?

Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more
regular and certain than those of our mind and conduct?
And v/ould a man be more ridiculous, who would expect that
an infant of four years old will raise a weight of three hundred
pounds, than one who, from a person of the same age, would
look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent and well
concerted action?

We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts
of matter arises from natural and necessary principles,
whatever difficulty we may find in explaining them : and for
a like reason we must allow, that human society is founded on
like principles; and our reason in the latter case is better
than even that in the former; because we not only observe
that men always seek society, but can also explain the
principles on which this universal propensity is founded.
For is it more certain that two flat pieces of marble will unite
together, than two young savages of different sexes will
copulate? Do the children arise from this copulation more
uniformly, than does the parents' care for their safety and
preservation? And after they have arrived at years of
discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniences
attending their separation more certain than their foresight
of these inconveniences, and their care of avoiding them by
a close union and confederacy ?

The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer,
are different from those of a man of quality: so are his

Ii6 Hume's Philosophical Works

sentiments, actions, and manners. The different stations
of life influence the whole fabric, external and internal;
and these different stations arise necessarily, because
uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of
human nature. Men cannot live without society, and cannot
be associated without government. Government makes a
distinction of property, and establishes the different ranks of
men. This produces industry, trafiic, manufactures, law-
suits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, travels, cities, fleets,
ports, and all those other actions and objects which cause such
a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an uniformity
in human life.

Should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us,
that he had seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern
latitude, where all the fruits ripen and come to perfection
in the winter, and decay in the summer, after the same
manner as in England they are produced and decay in the
contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe
him. i am apt to think a traveller would meet with as little
credit, who should inform us of people exactly of the same
character with those in Plato's republic on the one hand,
or those in Hobbes's Leviathan on the other. There is a
general course of nature in human actions, as well as in the
operations of the sun and the climate. There are also
characters peculiar to different nations and particular persons,
as well as common to mankind. The knowledge of these
characters is founded on the observation of an uniformity
in the actions that flow from them; and this uniformity
forms the very essence of necessity.

I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument,
which is by denying that uniformity of human actions, on
which it is founded. As long as actions have a constant
union and connection with the situation and temper of the
agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge the
necessity, we really allow the thing. Now, some may perhaps
find a pretext to deny this regular union and connection.
For what is more capricious than human actions? What
more inconstant than the desires of man.? And what
creature departs more widely, not only from right reason,
but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a
moment is sufficient to make him change from one extreme

Of the Passions 1 17

to another, and overturn what cost the greatest pain and
labour to establish. Necessity is regular and certain.
Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The one there-
fore proceeds not from the other.

To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we
must proceed upon the same maxims, as when we reason
concerning external objects. When any phenomena are
constantly and invariably conjoined together, they acquire
such a connection in the imagination, that it passes from
one to the other without any doubt or hesitation. But below
this there are many inferior degrees of evidence and prob-
abiHty, nor does one single contrariety of experiment entirely
destroy all our reasoning. The mind balances the contrary
experiments, and, deducting the inferior from the superior,
proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, which
remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely
equal, we remove not the notion of causes and necessity;
but, supposing that the usual contrariety proceeds from the
operation of contrar}^ and concealed causes, we conclude,
that the chance or indifference lies only in our judgment on
account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the things them-
selves, which are in every case equally necessary, though, to
appearance, not equally constant or certain. No union can
be more constant and certain than that of some actions with
some motives and characters; and if, in other cases, the union
is uncertain, it is no more than what happens in the operations
of body; nor can we conclude anything from the one
irregularity which will not follow equally from the other.

It is commonly allowed that madmen have no liberty.
But, were we to judge by their actions, these have less
regularity and constancy than the actions of wise men, and
consequently are further removed from necessity. Our way
of thinking in this particular is, therefore, absolutely in-
consistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused
ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use
of in our reasonings, especially on the present subject.

We must now show, that, as the unioit betwixt motives and
actions has the same constancy as that in any natural opera-
tions, so its influence on the understanding is also the same
in determining us to infer the existence of one from that of
another. If this shall appear, there is no known circumstance

Ii8 Hume's Philosophical Works

that enters into the connection and production of the actions
of matter that is not to be found in all the operations of the
mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest
absurdity, attribute necessity to the one, and refuse it to the
other.

There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so riveted to
this fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the
force of tjioral evidence, and both in speculation and practice
proceed upon it as upon a reasonable foundation. Now,
moral evidence is nothing but a conclusion concerning the
actions of men, derived from the consideration of their
motives, temper, and situation. Thus, when we see certain
characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that the
person who produced them would afhrm such facts, the death
of Caesar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and,
remembering many other concurrent testimonies, we conclude
that those facts were once really existent, and that so many
men, without any interest, would never conspire to deceive
us ; especially since they must, in the attempt, expose them-
selves to the derision of all their contemporaries, when these
facts were asserted to be recently and universally known.
The same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war,
commerce, economy, and indeed mLxes itself so entirely in
human life, that it is impossible to act or subsist a moment
without having recourse to it. A prince who imposes a tax
upon his subjects, expects their compliance. A general
who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of
courage. A merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor
or supercargo. A man who gives orders for his dinner,
doubts not of the obedience of his servants. In short, as
nothing more nearly interests us than our own actions and
those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings is employed
in judgments concerning them. Now I assert, that whoever
reasons after this manner, does ipso facto believe the actions
of the will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what
he means when he denies it.

All those objects, of which we call the one cause and the
other effect, considered in themselves, are as distinct and
separate from each other as any two things in nature; nor
can we ever, by the most accurate survey of them, infer the
existence of the one from that of the other. It is only from

Of the Passions 119

experience and the observation of their constant union, that
we are able to form this inference; and even after all, the
inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the imagina-
tion. We must not here be content with saying, that the
idea of cause and effect arises from objects constantly united;
but must aflirm, that it is the very same with the idea of these
objects, and that the necessary connection is not discovered
by a conclusion of the understanding, but is merely a percep-
tion of the mind. Wherever, therefore, we observe the same
union, and wherever the union operates in the same manner
upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of cause and
necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions.
Motion in one body, in all past instances that have fallen under
our observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in
another. It is impossible for the mind to penetrate further.
From this constant union it forms the idea of cause and effect,
and by its influence/?^/^ the necessity. As there is the same
constancy, and the same influence, in what we call moral
evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be a dis-
pute of words.

And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and
moral evidence cement together, and form only one chain
of argument betwixt them, we shall make no scruple to allow,
that they are of the same nature, and derived from the same
principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor interest
discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well from the
obstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars with which
he is surrounded ; and in all attempts for his freedom, chooses
rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon
the inflexible nature of the other. The same prisoner, when
conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly
from the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as from the
operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs along a certain
train of ideas : the refusal of the soldiers to consent to his
escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the
head and body, bleeding, convulsive motions, and death.
Here is a connected chain of natural causes and voluntary
actions; but the mind feels no difference betwixt them in
passing from one link to another; nor is less certain of the
future event than if it were connected with the present
impressions of the memory and senses by a train of causes

120 Hume's Philosophical Works

cemented together by what we are pleased to call a physical
necessity. The same experienced union has the same effect
on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, volitions,
and actions, or figure and motion. We may change the
names of things, but their nature and their operation on the
understanding never change.

I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute
these reasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions,
and assigning a different meaning to the terms of cause,
and effect, and necessity, and liberty, and chance. According
to my definitions, necessity makes an essential part of causa-
tion; and consequently liberty, by removing necessity,
removes all causes, and is the very same thing with chance.
As chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction,
and is at least directly contrary to experience, there are
always the same arguments against liberty or free-will.
If any one alters the definitions, I cannot pretend to argue
with him till I know the meaning he assigns to these terms.

SECTION II

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED

I BELIEVE we may assign the three following reasons for
the prevalence of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd
it may be in one sense, and unintelligible in any other.
First, after we have performed any action, though we confess
we were influenced by particular views and motives, it is
difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed by
necessity, and that it was utterly impossible for us to have
acted otherwise, the idea of necessity seeming to imply
something of force, and violence, and constraint, of which
we are not sensible. Few are capable of distinguishing
betwixt the liberty of spontaneity, as it is called in the schools,
and the liberty of indifference; betwixt that which is opposed
to violence, and that which means a negation of necessity
and causes. The first is even the most common sense of the
word; and as it is only that species of liberty which it concerns
us to preserve, our thoughts have been principally turned

Of the Passions i 2 i

towards it, and have almost universally confounded it with
the other.

Secondly, there is a. false sensation or experience even of
the liberty of indifference, which is regarded as an argument
for its real existence. The necessity of any action, whether
of matter or of mind, is not properly a quality in the agent,
but in any thinking or intelligent being who may consider
the action, and consists in the determination of his thought
to infer its existence from some preceding objects: as liberty
or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the want of that
determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel in pass-
ing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other.
Now, we may observe, that though in reflecting on human
actions, we seldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet
it very commonly happens, that, in performing the actions
themselves, we are sensible of something like it: and as all
related or resembling objects are readily taken for each other,
this has been employed as a demonstrative, or even an
intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions
are subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we
feel that the will itself is subject to nothing; because when,
by a denial of it, we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves
easily every way, and produces an image of itself even on
that side on which it did not settle. This image or faint
motion, we persuade ourselves, could have been completed
into the thing itself; because, should that be denied, we
find, upon a second trial, that it can. But these efforts are
all in vain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions
we may perform, as the desire of showing our liberty is the
sole motive of our actions, we can never free ourselves from
the bonds of necessity. We may imagine we feel a liberty
within ourselves, but a spectator can commonly infer our
actions from our motives and character; and even where he
cannot, he concludes in general that he might, were he
perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our situa-
tion and temper, and the most secret springs of our com-
plexion and disposition. Now, this is the very essence of
necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine.

A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally
been better received in the world than its antagonist, pro-
ceeds from religion, which has been very unnecessarily

122 Hume's Philosophical Works

interested in this question. There is no method of reasoning
more common, and yet none more blamable, than in philo-
sophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis by a
pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality.
When any opinion leads us into absurdities, it is certainly
false; but it is not certain an opinion is false because it
is of dangerous consequence. Such topics, therefore, ought
entirely to be forborne, as serving nothing to the discovery of
truth, but only to make the person of an antagonist odious.
This I observe in general, without pretending to draw any
advantage from it. I submit myself frankly to an examina-
tion of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine
of necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only
innocent, but even advantageous to religion and morality.

I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two
definitions of cause, of which it makes an essential part. I
place it either in the constant union and conjunction of like
objects, or in the inference of the mind from the one to the
other. Now, necessity, in both these senses, has universally,
though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common
life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no one
has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences
concerning human actions, and that those inferences are
founded on the experienced union of like actions with like
motives and circumstances. The only particular in which
any one can differ from me is, either that perhaps he will
refuse to call this necessity; but as long as the meaning is
understood, I hope the word can do no harm; or, that he
will maintain there is something else in the operations of
matter. Now, whether it be so or not, is of no consequence
to religion, whatever it may be to natural philosophy. I
may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no idea of any
other connection in the actions of body, and shall be glad to
be further instructed on that head : but sure I am, I ascribe
nothing to the actions of the mind, but what must readily
be allowed of. Let no one, therefore, put an invidious con-
struction on my words, by saying simply, that I assert the
necessity of human actions, and place them on the same
footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not
ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is
supposed to lie in matter. But I ascribe to matter that

Of the Passions i 23

intelligible quality, call it necessity or not, which the most
rigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to belong to the will.
I change, therefore, nothing in the received systems, with
regard to the will, but only with regard to material objects.

Nay, I shall go further, and assert, that this kind of
necessity is so essential to religion and morality, that without
it there must ensue an absolute subversion of both, and that
every other supposition is entirely destructive to all laws,
both divine and human. It is indeed certain, that as all
human laws are founded on rewards and punishments, it is
supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives
have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good
and prevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence
what name we please; but as it is usually conjoined with the
action, common sense requires it should be esteemed a cause,
and be looked upon as an instance of that necessity, which I
would establish.

This reasoning is equally solid, when applied to divine
laws, so far as the Deity is considered as a legislator, and is
supposed to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a
design to produce obedience. But I also maintain, that
even where he acts not in his magisterial capacity, but is
regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their
odiousness and deformity, not only it is impossible, without
the necessary connection of cause and effect in human
actions, that punishments could be inflicted compatible with
justice and moral equity; but also that it could ever enter
into the thoughts of any reasonable being to inflict them.
The constant and universal object of hatred or anger is a
person or creature endowed with thought and consciousness;
and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that
passion, it is only by their relation to the person or connec-
tion with him. But according to the doctrine of liberty or
chance, this connection is reduced to nothing, nor are men
more accountable for those actions, which are designed and
premeditated, than for such as are the most casual and
accidental. Actions are, by their very nature, temporary
and perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause
in the characters and dispositions of the person who per-
formed them, they infix not themselves upon him, and can
neither redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil.

124 Hume's Philosophical Works

The action itself may be blamable; it may be contrary to
all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is not
responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him
that is durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature
behind it, it is impossible he can, upon its account, become
the object of punishment or vengeance. According to the
h}T)othesis of liberty, therefore, a man is as pure and un-
tainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, as
at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way
concerned in his actions, since they are derived from it, and
the wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the
depravity of the other. It is only upon the principles of
necessity, that a person acquires any merit or demerit from
his actions, however the common opinion may incline to the
contrary.

But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though
they often assert that necessity utterly destroys all merit
and demerit either towards mankind or superior powers, yet
they continue still to reason upon these ^'ery principles of
necessity in all their judgments concerning this matter.
Men are not blamed for such evil actions as they perform
ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their consequences.
Why? but because the causes of these actions are only
momentary, and terminate in them alone. l\ien are less
blamed for such evil actions as they perform hastily and
unpremeditately, than for such as proceed from thought and
deliberation. For what reason? but because a hasty
temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only
by intervals, and infects not the whole character. Again,
repentance wipes off every crime, especially if attended with
an evident reformation of life and manners. How is this to
be accounted for? but by asserting that actions render a
person criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal passions
or principles in the mind; and when, by any alteration of
these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they likewise
cease to be criminal. But according to the doctrine of
liberty or chance, they never were just proofs, and conse-
quently never were criminal.

Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free
his own system from these odious consequences before he
charges them upon others. Or, if he rather chooses that this

Of the Passions 125

question should be decided by fair arguments before philo-
sophers, than by declamations before the people, let him
return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and
chance are synonymous ; and concerning the nature of moral
evidence and the regularity of human actions. Upon a review
of these reasonings, I cannot doubt of an entire victory ; and
therefore, having proved that all actions of the will have
particular causes, I proceed to explain what these causes are,
and how they operate.

SECTION III

OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL

Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common
life, than to talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give
the preference to reason, and assert that men are only so far
virtuous as they conform themselves to its dictates. Every
rational creature, it is said, is obliged to regulate his actions
by reason; and if any other motive or principle challenge the
direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose it, till it be
entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity with
that superior principle. On this method of thinking the
greatest part of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems
tP-be founded ; nor is there an ampler field, as well for meta-
physical arguments, as popular declamations, than this sup-
posed preeminence of reason above passion. The eternity,
invariableness, and divine origin of the former, have been
displayed to the best advantage : the blindness, inconstancy,
and deceitfulness of the latter, have been as strongly insisted
on. In order to show the fallacy of all this philosophy,.! shall
endeavour to prove first, that reason alone can never be a,
motive to any action of the will; and secondly, that it can
never oppose passion in the direction of the will.

The understanding exerts itself after two different ways,
as it judges from demonstration or probability; as it regards
the abstract relations of our ideas, or those relations of objects
of which experience only gives us information. I believe it
scarce will be asserted, that the first species of reasoning alone

126 Hume's Philosophical Works

is ever the cause of any action. As its proper province is the
world of ideas, and as the will always places us in that of
realities, demonstration and volition seem upon that account
to be totally removed from each other. Mathematics, indeed,
are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in
almost every art and profession : but it is not of themselves
they have any influence. Mechanics are the art of regulating
the motions of bodies to some designed end or purpose ; and
the reason why we employ arithmetic in fixing the proportions
of numbers, is only that we may discover the proportions of
their influence and operation. A merchant is desirous of
knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person: why ?
but that he may learn what sum will have the same e§ects in
paying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular
articles taken together. Abstract or demonstrative reason-
ing, therefore, never influences any of our actions, but only
as it directs our judgment concerning causes and effects;
which leads us to the second operation of the understanding.

It is obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or
pleasure from any object, we feel a consequent emotion of
"aversion or propensity, and are carried to avoid or embrace
what will give us this uneasiness or satisfaction. It is also
obvious, that this emotion rests not here, but, making us cast
our view on every side, comprehends whatever objects are
connected with its original one by the relation of cause and
effect. Here then reasoning takes place to discover this
relation ; and according as our reasoning varies, our actions
receive a subsequent variation. But it is evident, in this case,
that the impulse arises not from reason, but is only directed
by it. It is from the prospect of pain or pleasure that the
aversion or propensity arises towards any object: and these
emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that
object, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience.
It can never in the least concern us to know, that such objects
are causes, and such others effects, if both the causes and
effects be indifferent to us. Where the objects themselves
do not affect us, their connection can never give them any
influence; and it is plain that, as reason is nothing but the
discovery of this connection, it cannot be by its means that
the objects are able to affect us.

Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give

Of the Passions i 27

rise to volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable
of preventing volition, or of disputing the preference with
any passion or emotion. This consequence is necessary.
It is impossible reason could have the latter effect of prevent-
ing volition, but by giving an impulse in a contrary direction
to our passions; and that impulse, had it operated alone,
would have been ample to produce volition. Nothing can
oppose or retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary
jmgulsej and if this contrary impulse ever'aflses from
reason, that latter faculty must have an original influence
on the will, and must be able to cause, as well as hinder,
any act of volition. Butif reason has no original influence,
it is impossible it can withsTand any principle which has such
an efhcacy, or ever keep the mind in suspense a moment.
Thus, it appears, that the principle which opposes our
passion cannot be the same with reason, and is only called
so in an improper sense. We speak not strictly and philo-
sophically, when we talk of the combat of passion and of
reason. Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the
passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to
serve and obey them. As this opinion may appear some-
what extraordinary, it may not be improper to confirm it by
some other considerations.

A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modifica-
tion of existence, and contains not any representative quality,
which renders it a copy of any other existence or modification.
When I am angry, I am actually possessed with the passion,
and in that emotion have no more a reference to any other
object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or more than five
feet high. It is impossible, therefore, that this passion can be
opposed by, or be contradictory to truth and reason; since
"this contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas,
considered as copies, with those objects which they represent.

What may at first occur on this head is, that as nothing can
be contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference
to it, and as the judgments of our understanding only have
this reference, it must follow that passions can be contrary to
reason only, so far as they are accompanied with some judg-
ment or opinion. According to this principle, which is so
obvious and natural, it is only in two senses that any affection
can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion, such as

I

128 Hume's Philosophical Works

hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security-j is founded on
the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not
exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we
choose rneans sufficient for the designed end, and deceive
ourselves in our judgment of causes and effects. Where a
passion is neither founded on false suppositions, nor chooses
means insufficient for the end, the understanding can neither
justify nor condemn it. It is not contrary to reason to prefer
the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my
finger. It is not contrary to reason for me to choose my total
ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or person
wholly unknown to me. It is as little contrary to reason to
prefer even my own acknowledged lesser good to my greater,
and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter.
A trivial good may, from certain circumstances, produce a
desire superior to what arises from the greatest and most
valuable enjoyment; nor is there anything more extra-
ordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight
raise up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. Jn
short, a passion must be accompanied with some false judg-
ment, in order to its being unreasonable ; and even then it is
not the passion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable,
but the judgment.

The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never,
in any sense, be called unreasonable, but when founded on a
false supposition, or when it chooses means insufficient for
the designed end, it is impossible that reason and passion
can ever oppose each other, or dispute for the government of
the will and actions. The moment we perceive the falsehood
of any supposition, or the insufficiency of any means, our
passions yield to our reason without any opposition. I may
desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever you
convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will
the performance of certain actions as means of obtaining
any desired good; but as my willing of these actions is only
secondary, and founded on the supposition that they are
causes of the proposed effect ; as soon as I discover the false-
hood of that supposition, they must become indifferent to me.

It is natural for one, that does not examine objects with a
strict philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the
mind are entirely the same, which produce not a different

Of the Passions 129

sensation, and are not immediately distinguishable to the
feeling and perception. Reason, for instance, exerts itself
without producing any sensible emotions; and except in the
more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the frivolous
subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure or
uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the
mind which operates with the same calmness and tranquillity,
is confounded with reason by all those who judge of things
from the first view and appearance. Now it is certain there
are certain calm desires and tendencies, which, though they
be real passions, produce little emotion in the mind, and are
more known by their effects than by the immediate feeling
or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain
instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevo-
lence and resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children ;
qr the general appetite to good, and aversion to evil, con-
sidered merely as such. When any of these passions are
cakn, and cause no disorder in the soul, they are very readily
taken for the determinations of reason, and are supposed to
proceed from the same faculty with that which judges of
truth and falsehood. Their nature and principles have been
supposed the same, because their sensations are not evidently
different.

Beside these calm passions, which often determine the
will, there are certain violent emotions of the same kind,
which have likewise a great influence on that faculty. When
I receive any injury from another, I often feel a violent
passion of resentment, which makes me desire his evil and
punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure
and advantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened
with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions
rise to a great height, and produce a sensible emotion.

The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing
the direction of the will entirely to one of these principles,
and supposing the other to have no influence. _Mea.j)ften
^t knowingly against their interest; for which reason^ the

view "of the greatest possible good does not always influence
tTiem! Men often counteract a violent passion in prosecution
"of their interests and designs ; it is not, therefore, the present
uneasiness alone which determines them. In general we
may observe that both these principles operate on the will;

130 Hume's Philosophical Works

and where they are contrary, that either of them prevails,
according to the general character or present disposition of
the person. What we call strength of mind, implies the
prevalence of the calm passions above the violent; though
"we may easily observe^ there is no inan so constantly possessed
of this virtue as never on any occasion to yield to the sohcita-
tions of passion and desire. From these variations of temper
proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the
actions and resolutions of men, where there is any con-
trariety of motives and passions.

SECTION IV

OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS

There is not in philosophy a subject of more nice specula-
tion than this, of the different causes and effects of the calm
and violent passions. It is evident, passions influence not
the will in proportion to their violence, or the disorder they
occasion in the temper; but, on the contrary, that when a
passion has once become a settled principle of action, and is
the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly pro-
duces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated custom
and its own force have made everything yield to it, it directs
the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion
which so naturally attend every momentary gust of passion.
We must, therefore, distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak
passion; betwixt a violent and a strong one. But notwith-
standing this, it is certain that, when we would govern a man,
and push him to any action, it will commonly be better
policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and
rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly
called his reason. We ought to place the object in such
particular situations as are proper to increase the violence of
the passion. For we may observe, that all depends upon the
situation of the object, and that a variation in this particular
will be able to change the calm and the violent passions into
each other. Both these kinds of passions pursue good, and
avoid evil; and both of them are increased or diminished by

Of the Passions 131

the increase or diminution of the good or evil. But herein
Hes the difference betwixt them: the same good^ when near,
will cause a violent passion, which, when remote, produces
only a calm one. As this subject belongs very properly to
the present question concerning the will, we shall here
examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those
circumstances and situations of objects, which render a
passion either calm or violent.

It is a remarkable property of human nature, that any
emotion which attends a passion is easily converted into it,
though in their natures they be originally different from, and
even contrary to, each other. It is true, in order to make a
perfect union among the passions, there is always required a
double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation
sufficient for that purpose. But though this be confirmed
by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its
proper limitations, and must regard the double relation as
requisite only to make one passion produce another. When
two passions are already produced by their separate causes,
and are both present in the mind, they readily mingle and
unite, though they have but one relation, and sometimes
without any. The predominant passion swallows up the
inferior, and converts it into itself. The spirits, when once
excited, easily receive a change in their direction; and it is
natural to imagine this change will come from the prevailing
affection. The connection is in many respects closer betwixt
any two passions, than betwixt any passion and indifference.

When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults
and caprice of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels to
which that commerce is so subject, however unpleasant, and
related to anger and hatred, are yet found to give additional
force to the prevailing passion. It is a common artifice of
politicians, when they would affect any person very much
by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first
to excite his curiosity, delay as long as possible the satisfying
it, and by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the
utmost, before they give him a full insight into the business.
They know that his curiosity will precipitate him into the
passion they design to raise, and assist the object in its
influence on the mind. A soldier advancing to the battle
is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, when he

132 Hume's Philosophical Works

thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with
fear and terror when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever
new emotion^ therefore, proceeds from the former, naturailv
increases the courage; as the same emotion, proceeding from
the latter, augments the fear, by the relation of ideas, and
the conversion of the inferior emotion into the predominant.
Hence it is, that in martial discipline, the uniformity and
lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and motions,
with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves
and allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror
into us, though agreeable and beautiful in themselves.

Since passions, however independent, are naturally trans-
fused into each other, if they are both present at the same
time, it follows, that when good or evil is placed in such a
situation as to cause any particular emotion besides its direct
passion of desire or aversion, that latter passion must acquire
new force and violence.

This happens, among other cases, whenever any object
excites contrary passions. For it is observable that an
opposition of passions commonly causes a new emotion in the
spirits, and produces more disorder than the concurrence
of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion is
easily converted into the predominant passion, and increases
its violence beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had
it met with no opposition. Hence we naturally desire what
is forbid, and take a pleasure in performing actions, merelv
because they are unlawful. The motion of duty, when
opposite to the passions, is seldom able to overcome them;
and, when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to increase them,
by producing an opposition in our motives and principles.

The same effect follows, whether the opposition arises
from internal motives or external obstacles. The passion
commonly acquires new force and violence in both cases.
The efforts which the mind makes to surmount the obstacle,
excite the spirits and enliven the passion.

Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The
agitation of the thought, the quick turns it makes from one
view to another, the variety of passions which succeed each
other, according to the different views ; all these produce an
agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves into the
predominant passion.

Of the Passions 133

There is not, in my opinion, any other natural cause why
security diminishes the passions, than because it removes that
uncertainty which increases them. The mind, when left
to itself, immediately languishes, and, in order to preserve
its ardour, must be every moment supported by a new flow
of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary
to security, has a like influence.

It is certain, nothing more powerful animates any affection
than to conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a
kind of shade, which, at the same time that it shows enough
to prepossess us in favour of the object, leaves still some
work for the imagination. Besides, that obscurity is always
attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort which the
fancy makes to complete the idea rouses the spirits, and gives
an additional force to the passion.

As despair and security, though contrary to each other,
produce the same effects, so absence is observed to have
contrary effects, and, in different circumstances, either
increases or diminishes our affections. The Due de la
Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence destroys
weak passions, but increases strong; as the wind extinguishes
a candle, but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally
weakens our idea, and diminishes the passion; but where the
idea is so strong and lively as to support itself, the uneasiness,
arising from absence, increases the passion, and gives it new
force and violence.

SECTION V

OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM

But nothing has a greater effect both to increase and
diminish our passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and
pain into pleasure, than custom and repetition. Custom
has two original effects upon the mind, in bestowing 2i facility
in the performance of any action, or the conception of any
object, and afterwards a tendency or inclination towards it;
and from these we may account for all its other effects,
however extraordinary.

134 Hume's Philosophical Works

When the soul appHes itself to the performance of any
action, or the conception of any object to which it is not
accustomed, there is a certain unpliableness in the faculties,
and a difficulty of the spirits moving in their new direction.
As this difficulty excites the spirits, it is the source of wonder,
surprise, and of all the emotions which arise from novelty,
and is in itself very agreeable, like everything which enlivens
the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprise be
agreeable in itself, yet, as it puts the spirits in agitation,
it not only augments our agreeable affections, but also our
painful, according to the foregoing principle, that every
emotion which precedes or attends a passion is easily converted
into it. Hence, everything that is new is most affecting,
and gives us either more pleasure or pain than what, strictly
speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it often returns
upon us, the novelty wears off, the passions subside, the
hurry of the spirits is over, and we sui*vey the objects with
greater tranquillity.

By degrees, the repetition produces a facility, which is
another very powerful principle of the human mind, and an
infallible source of pleasure where the facility goes not beyond
a certain degree. And here it is remarkable, that the pleasure
which arises from a moderate facility has not the same
tendency with that which arises from novelty, to augment
the painful as well as the agreeable affections. The pleasure
of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of the
spirits, as in their ordinary motion, which will sometimes be
so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give
us a relish in time for what at first was most harsh and dis-
agreeable.

But, again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it
often converts pleasure into pain when it is too great, and
renders the actions of the mind so faint and languid, that they
are no longer able to interest and support it. And indeed
scarce any other objects become disagreeable through custom,
but such as are naturally attended with some emotion or
affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent repetition.
One can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, and
stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling
any aversion. But when the fair sex, or music, or good
cheer, or anything that naturally ought to be agreeable,

Of the Passions 135

becomes indifferent, it easily produces the opposite affection.
But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action,
but likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where
it is not entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object
of inclination. And this is the reason why custom increases
all active habits, but diminishes passive, according to the
observation of a late eminent philosopher. The facility
takes off from the force of the passive habits by rendering
the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as in the
active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves,
the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends
them more strongly to the action.

SECTION VI

OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS

It is remarkable that the imagination and affections have
a close union together, and that nothing, which affects the
former, can be entirely indifferent to the latter. Wherever
our ideas of good or evil acquire a new vivacity, the passions
become more violent, and keep pace with the imagination
in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from the
principle above mentioned, that any attendant emotion is
easily converted into the predominant, I shall not determine.
It is sufficient for my present purpose, that we have many
instances to confirm this influence of the imagination upon
the passions.

Any pleasure with which we are acquainted, affects us
more than any other which we own to be superior, but of
whose nature we are wholly ignorant. Of the one we can
form a particular and determinate idea: the other we con-
ceive under the general notion of pleasure; and it is certain
that the more general and universal any of our ideas are,
the less influence they have upon the imagination. A general
idea, though it be nothing but a particular one considered
in a certain view, is commonly more obscure; and that
because no particular idea, by which we represent a general
one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily be changed

136 Hume's Philosophical Works

for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the
representation.

There is a noted passage in the historj^ of Greece, which
may serve for our present purpose. Themistocles told
the Athenians that he had formed a design which would be
highly useful to the public, but which it was impossible for
him to communicate to them without ruining the execution,
since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with which
it should be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting
him full power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to
communicate his design to Aristides, in whose prudence
they had an entire confidence, and whose opinion they were
resolved blindly to submit to. The design of Themistocles
was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the Grecian common-
wealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, and
which, being once destroyed, would give the Athenians the
empire of the sea without any rival. Aristides returned to
the assembly, and told them, that nothing could be more
advantageous than the design of Themistocles; but at the
same time that nothing could be more unjust: upon which
the people unanimously rejected the project.

A late celebrated historian ^ admires this passage of ancient
history as one of the most singular that is an)nvhere to be
met with. " Here," says he, " they are not philosophers,
to whom it is easy in their schools to establish the finest
maxims and most sublime rules of morahty, who decide that
interest ought never to prevail above justice. It is a whole
people interested in the proposal which is made to them,
who consider it as of importance to the public good, and who,
notwithstanding, reject it unanimously, and without hesita-
tion, merely because it is contrary to justice." For my part
I see nothing so extraordinary in this proceeding of the
Athenians. The same reasons which render it so easy for
philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part,
to diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people.
Philosophers never balance betwixt profit and honesty,
because their decisions are general, and neither their passions
nor imaginations are interested in the objects. And though,
in the present case, the advantage was immediate to the
Athenians, yet as it was known only under the general

1 Mons. RoUin.

Of the Passions 137

notion of advantage, without being conceived by any par-
ticular idea, it must have had a less considerable influence
on their imaginations, and have been a less violent tempta-
tion, than if they had been acquainted with all its circum-
stances: otherwise it is difficult to conceive, that a whole
people, unjust and violent, as men commonly are, should so
unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any
considerable advantage.

Any satisfaction which we lately enjoyed, and of which the
memory is fresh and recent, operates on the will with more
violence than another of which the traces are decayed, and
almost obliterated. From whence does this proceed, but
that the memory in the first case assists the fancy, and gives
an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? The
image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows
these qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is
connected with it by the relation of resemblance.

A pleasure which is suitable to the way of life in which we
are engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than
another which is foreign to it. This phenomenon may be
explained from the same principle.

Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the
mind than eloquence, by which objects are represented in
their strongest and most lively colours. We may of ourselves
acknowledge, that such an object is valuable, and such
another odious; but till an orator excites the imagination,
and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble
influence either on the will or the afi'ections.

But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion
of another, especially when enforced with passion, will cause
an idea of good or evil to have an influence upon us, which
would otherwise have been entirely neglected. This proceeds
from the principle of sympathy or communication; and
sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing but the
conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of
imagination.

It is remarkable that lively passions commonly attend
a lively imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the
force of the passion depends as much on the temper of the
person as the nature or situation of the object.

I have already observed that belief is nothing but a lively

138 Hume's Philosophical Works

idea related to a present impression. This vivacity is a
requisite circumstance to the exciting all our passions^ the
calm as well as the violent; nor has a mere fiction of the
imagination any considerable influence upon either of them.
It is too weak to take any hold of the mind, or be attended
with emotion.

SECTION VII

OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME

There is an easy reason why everything contiguous to us,
either in space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar
force and vivacity, and excel every other object in its
influence on the imagination. Ourself is intimately present
to us, and whatever is related to self must partake of that
quality. But where an object is so far removed as to have
lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is further
removed, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure,
would perhaps require a more particular examination.

It is obvious that the imagination can never totally forget
the points of space and time in which we are existent; but
receives such frequent advertisements of them from the
passions and senses, that, however it may turn its attention
to foreign and remote objects, it is necessitated every moment
to reflect on the present. It is also remarkable, that in the
conception of those objects which we regard as real and
existent, we take them in their proper order and situation,
and never leap from one object to another, which is distant
from it, without running over, at least in a cursory manner,
all those objects which are interposed betwixt them. When
we reflect, therefore, on any object distant from ourselves,
we are obliged not only to reach it at first by passing through
all the intermediate space betwixt ourselves and the object,
but also to renew our progress every moment, being every
moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our
present situation. It is easily conceived, that this interrup-
tion must weaken the idea, by breaking the action of the
mind, and hindering the conception from being so intense

Of the Passions 139

and continued, as when we reflect on a nearer object. The
fewer steps we make to arrive at the object, and the smoother
the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less sensibly felt,
but still may be observed more or less in proportion to the
degrees of distance and difficulty.

Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the
contiguous and remote, of which the former, by means of
their relation to ourselves, approach an impression in force
and vivacity; the latter, by reason of the interruption in our
manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker and more
imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination.
If my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable
effect on the will and passions. Contiguous objects must
have an influence much superior to the distant and remote.
Accordingly we find, in common life, that men are principally
concerned about those objects which are not much removed
either in space or time, enjoying the present, and leaving
what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to
a man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not
regard you. Speak of what is to happen to-morrow, and he
will lend you attention. The breaking of a mirror gives us
more concern when at home, than the burning of a house
when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant.

But further; though distance, both in space and time,
has a considerable effect on the miagination, and by that
means on the will and passions, yet the consequences of a
removal in space are much inferior to those of a removal in
time. Twenty years are certainly but a small distance of
time in comparison of what history and even the memory
of some may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand
leagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe
can admit of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas and
diminish our passions. A West india.n merchant will tell
you, that he is not without concern about what passes in
Jamaica; though few extend their views so far into futurity,
as to dread very remote accidents.

The cause of this phenomenon must evidently he in the
different properties of space and time. Without having
recourse to metaphysics, any one may easily observe, that
space or extension consists of a number of coexistent parts
disposed in a certain order, and capable of being at once

140 Hume's Philosophical Works

present to the sight or feehng. On the contrary, time or
succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents
to us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two
of them ever to be coexistent. These qualities of the objects
have a suitable effect on the imagination. The parts of
extension being susceptible of an union to the senses, acquire
an union in the fancy; and as the appearance of one part
excludes not another, the transition or passage of the thought
through the contiguous parts is by that means rendered more
smooth and easy. On the other hand, the incompatibility
of the parts of time in their real existence separates them
in the imagination, and makes it more difficult for that
faculty to trace any long succession or series of events.
Every part must appear single and alone, nor can regularly
have entrance into the fancy without banishing what is
supposed to have been immediately precedent. By this
means any distance in time causes a greater interruption in
the thought than an equal distance in space, and consequently
weakens more considerably the idea, and consequently the
passions ; which depend in a great measure on the imagination,
according to my system.

There is another phenomenon of a like nature with the
foregoing, viz. the superior effects of the same distance in
futurity above that in the past. This difference with respect
to the will is easily accounted for. As none of our actions
can alter the past, it is not strange it should never determine
the will. But with respect to the passions, the question is
yet entire, and well worth the examining.

Besides the propensity to a gradual progression through
the points of space and time, we have another peculiarity
in our method of thinking, which concurs in producing this
phenomenon. We always follow the succession of time in
placing our ideas, and from the consideration of any object
pass more easily to that which follows immediately after it,
than to that which went before it. We may learn this,
among other instances, from the order which is always
observed in historical narrations. Nothing but an absolute
necessity can oblige an historian to break the order of time,
and in his narration give the precedence to an event, which
was in reality posterior to another.

This will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we

Of the Passions 141

reflect on what I have before observed, that the present
situation of the person is always that of the imagination, and
that it is from thence we proceed to the conception of any
distant object. When the object is past, the progression of
the thought in passing to it from the present is contrary to
nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that which is
preceding, and from that to another preceding, in opposition
to the natural course of the succession. On the other hand,
when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy
flows along the stream of time, and arrives at the object of
an order, which seems most natural, passing always from
one point of time to that which is immediately posterior to it.
This easy progression of ideas favours the imagination, and
makes it conceive its object in a stronger and fuller light,
than when we are continually opposed in our passage, and
are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the
natural propensity of the fancy. A small degree of distance
in the past has, therefore, a greater effect in interrupting
and weakening the conception, than a much greater in the
future. From this effect of it on the imagination is derived
its influence on the will and passions.

There is another cause, which both contributes to the
same effect, and proceeds from the same quality of the
fancy, by which we are determined to trace the succession
of time by a similar succession of ideas. When, from the
present instant, we consider two points of time equally distant
in the future and in the past, it is evident that, abstractedly
considered, their relation to the present is almost equal.
For as the future will some time be present, so the past was
once present. If we could, therefore, remove this quality of
the imagination, an equal distance in the past and in the
future would have a similar influence. Nor is this only true
when the fancy remains fixed, and from the present instant
surveys the future and the past; but also when it changes its
situation, and places us in different periods of time. For as,
on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of
time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future
object, we find the future object approach to us and the past
retire and become more distant: so, on the other hand, in
supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interposed
betwixt the present and the past, the past approaches to us,

142 Hume's Philosophical Works

and the future becomes more distant. But from the property
of the fancy above mentioned, we rather choose to fix our
thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present
and the future, than on that betwixt the present and the
past. We advance rather than retard our existence; and,
following what seems the natural succession of time, proceed
from past to present, and from present to future; by which
means we conceive the future as flowing every moment nearer
us, and the past as retiring. An equal distance, therefore, in
the past and in the future, has not the same effect on the
imagination; and that because we consider the one as con-
tinually increasing, and the other as continually diminishing.
The fancy anticipates the course of things, and surveys the
object in that condition to which it tends, as well as in that
which is regarded as the present.

SECTION VIII

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED

Thus we have accounted for three phenomena, which
seem pretty remarkable. Why distance weakens the concep-
tion and passion: why distance in time has a greater effect
than that in space : and why distance in past time has still a
greater effect than that in future. We must now consider
three phenomena, which seem to be in a manner the reverse
of these : why a very great distance increases our esteem and
admiration for an object: why such a distance in time
increases it more than that in space: and a distance in past
time more than that in future. The curiousness of the
subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling on it for some time.
To begin with the first phenomenon, why a great distance
increases our esteem and admiration for an object; it is
evident that the mere view and contemplation of any great-
ness, whether successive or extended, enlarges the soul, and
gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide plain, the
ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these are
entertaining objects, and excel everything, however beauti-

Of the Passions 143

ful, which accompanies not its beauty with a suitable great-
ness. Now, when any very distant object is presented to the
imagination, we naturally reflect on the interposed distance,
and by that means conceiving something great and magnifi-
cent, receive the usual satisfaction. But as the fancy passes
easily from one idea to another related to it, and transports
to the second all the passions excited by the first, the admira-
tion, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses
itself over the distant object. Accordingly we find, that
it is not necessary the object should be actually distant from
us in order to cause our admiration ; but that it is sufficient if,
by the natural association of ideas, it conveys our view to any
considerable distance. A great traveller, though in the same
chamber, will pass for a very extraordinary person; as a
Greek medal, even in our cabinet, is always esteemed a
valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a natural transition,
conveys our view to the distance; and the admiration which
arises from that distance, by another natural transition,
returns back to the object.

But though every great distance produces an admiration
for the distant object, a distance in time has a more consider-
able effect than that of space. Ancient busts and inscriptions
are more valued than Japan tables: and, not to mention the
Greeks and Romans, it is certain we regard with more venera-
tion the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the modern Chinese
and Persians; and bestow more fruitless pains to clear up
the history and chronology of the former, than it would
cost us to make a voyage, and be certainly informed of the
character, learning, and government of the latter. I shall
be obliged to make a digression in order to explain this
phenomenon.

It is a quality very observable in human nature, that any
opposition which does not entirely discourage and intimidate
us, has rather a contrary effect, and inspires us with a more
than ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. In collecting
our force to overcome the opposition, we invigorate the
soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it would
never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our
strength useless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition
awakens and employs it.

This is also true in the inverse. Opposition not only

144 Hume's Philosophical Works

enlarges the soul; but the soul^ when full of courage and
magnanimity, in a manner seeks opposition.

Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis
Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere raonte leonem.

Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to
us; as, on the contrary, what weakens and enfeebles them
is uneasy. As opposition has the first effect, and facilitates
the second, no wonder the mind, in certain dispositions,
desires the former, and is averse to the latter.

These principles have an effect on the imagination as well
as on the passions. To be convinced of this, we need only
consider the influence of heights and depths on that faculty.
Any great elevation of place communicates a kind of pride
or sublimity of imagination, and gives a fancied superiority
over those that lie below ; and, vice versa, a sublime and strong
imagination conveys the idea of ascent and elevation. Hence
it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea of what-
ever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness.
Heaven is supposed to be above, and hell below. A noble
genius is called an elevate and sublime one. Atque udam
spernit humum fugiente penna. On the contrary, a vulgar
and trivial conception is styled indifferently low or mean.
Prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent.
Kings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top of
human affairs ; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be
in the lowest stations. These methods of thinking and of
expressing ourselves, are not of so little consequence as they
may appear at first sight.

It is evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that
there is no natural nor essential difference betwixt high and
low, and that this distinction arises only from the gravitation
of matter, which produces a motion from the one to the other.
The very same direction, which in this part of the globe is
called ascent, is denominated descent in our antipodes ; which
can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency of bodies.
Now it is certain that the tendency of bodies, continually
operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like
tendency in the fancy; and that when we consider any object
situated in an ascent, the idea of its weight gives us a pro-
pensity to transport it from the place m which it is situated

Of the Passions 145

to the place immediately below it, and so on till we come to
the ground, which equally stops the body and our imagination.
For a like reason we feel a difficulty in mounting, and pass not
without a kind of reluctance from the inferior to that which is
situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of gravity
from their objects. As a proof of this, do we not find that the
facility, which is so much studied in music and poetrj^, is
called the fall or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea
of facility communicating to us that of descent, in the same
manner as descent produces a facility ?

Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to
high, finds an opposition in its internal qualities and prin-
ciples, and since the soul, when elevated with joy and courage,
in a manner seeks opposition, and throws itself with alacrity
into any scene of thought or action where its courage meets
with matter to nourish and employ it, it follows that every-
thing which invigorates and enlivens the soul, whether by
touching the passions or imagination, naturallj'' conveys to
the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to run
against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions.
This aspiring progress of the imagination suits the present
disposition of the mind; and the difficulty, instead of extin-
guishing its vigour and alacrity, has the contrary effect of
sustaining and increasing it. Virtue, genius, power, and
riches, are for this reason associated with height and sublimity,
as poverty, slavery, and folly are conjoined with descent and
lowness. Were the case the same with us as Milton represents
it to be with the angels, to whom descent is adverse and who
cannot sink without labour and compulsion, this order of things'
would be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very
nature of ascent and descent is derived from the difficulty
and propensity, and consequently every one of their effects
proceeds from that origin.

All this is easily applied to the present question, why a
considerable distance in time produces a greater veneration
for the distant objects than a like removal in space. The
imagination moves with more difficulty in passing from one
portion of time to another, than in a transition through the
parts of space ; and that because space or extension appears
united to our senses, while time or succession is always broken

I and divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small dis-
II K

146 Hume's Philosophical Works

tance, interrupts and weakens the fancy, but has a contrary
effect in a great removal. The mind, elevated by the vast-
ness of its object, is still further elevated by the difficulty of
the conception, and, being obliged every moment to renew
its efforts in the transition from one part of time to another,
feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition than in a tran-
sition through the parts of space, where the ideas flow along
with easiness and facility. In this disposition, the imagina-
tion,passing,as is usual, from the consideration of the distance
to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable
veneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relics of
antiquity are so precious in. our eyes, and appear more
valuable than what is brought even from the remotest parts
of the world.

The third phenomenon I have remarked will be a full con-
firmation of this. It is not every removal in time which has
the effect of producing veneration and esteem. We are not
apt to imagine our posterity will excel us, or equal our
ancestors. This phenomenon is the more remarkable,
because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so
much as an equal removal in the past. Though a removal
in the past, when ver\' great, increases our passions beyond
a like removal in the future, yet a small removal has a
greater influence in diminishing them.

In our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of
middle station betwixt the past and future; and as our
imagination finds a kind of difficulty in running along the
former, and a facility in following the course of the latter,
the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, and the facility
of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to be, in a
manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us.
Our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily
reaches the other: which effort weakens the conception,
where the distance is small; but enlarges and elevates the
imagination, when attended with a suitable object. As on
the other hand, the facility assists the fancy in a small removal,
but takes off from its force when it contemplates any con- j
siderable distance.

It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of
the will, to resume, in a few words, all that has been said con-
cerning it, in order to set the whole more distinctly before

Of the Passions 147

the eyes of the reader. What we commonly understand by
passion is a violent and sensible emotion of mind, when any
good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the original
formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite.
By reason we mean affections of the very same kind with the
former, but such as operate more calmly, and cause no dis-
order in the temper: which tranquillity leads us into a
mistake concerning them, and causes us to regard them as
conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. Both the
causes and effects of these violent and calm passions are pretty
variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar
temper and disposition of every individual. Generally
speaking, the violent passions have a more powerful influ-
ence on the will; though it is often found that the calm ones,
when corroborated by reflection, and seconded by resolution,
are able to control them in their most furious movements.
What makes this whole affair more uncertain is, that a calm
passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a
change of temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the
object; as by the borrowing of force from any attendant
passion, by custom, or by exciting the imagination. Upon
the whole, this struggle of passion and of reason, as it is called,
diversifies human life, and makes men so different not only
from each other, but also from themselves in different times.
Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater and
more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the
smaller and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on prin-
ciples too fine and minute for her comprehension.

SECTION IX

OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS

It is easy to observe that the passions, both direct and
indirect, are founded on pain and pleasure, and that, in order
to produce an affection of any kind, it is only requisite to
present some good or evil. Upon the removal of pain and
pleasure, there immediately follows a removal of love and

148 Hume's Philosophical Works

hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, and of most
of our reflective or secondary impressions.

The impressions which arise from good and evil most
naturally, and with the least preparation, are the direct
passions of desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear,
along with volition. The mind, by an original instinct, tends
to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the evil, though they
be conceived merely in idea, and be considered as to exist in
any future period of tim.e.

But supposing that there is an immediate impression of
pain or pleasure, and that arising from an object related to
ourselves or others, this does not prevent the propensity or
aversion, with the consequent emotions, but, by concurring
with certain dormant principles of the human mind, excites
the new impressions of pride or humility, love or hatred.
That propensity which unites us to the object, or separates
us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction with
the indirect passions which arise from a double relation of
impressions and ideas.

These indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy,
give in their turn additional force to the direct passions, and
increase our desire and aversion to the object. Thus, a suit
of fine clothes produces pleasure from their beauty; and this
pleasure produces the direct passions, or the impressions of
volition or desire. Again, when these clothes are considered
as belonging to ourself, the double relation conveys to us the
sentiment of pride, which is an indirect passion; and the
pleasure which attends that passion returns back to the
direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition,
joy or hope.

When good is certain or probable, it produces joy. When
evil is in the same situation, there arises grief or sorroiv.

When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to fear
or hope, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one
side or the other.

Desire arises from good considered simply; and aversion
is derived from evil. The 7vill exerts itself, when either the
good or the absence of the evil may be attained by any
action of the mind or body.

Besides good and evil, or, in other words, pain and pleasure,
the direct passions frequently arise from a natural impulse

Of the Passions 149

or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind
is the desire of punishment to our enemies, and of happiness
to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other bodily appetites.
These passions, properly speaking, produce good and evil,
and proceed not from them, like the other affections.

None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular
attention, except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour
to account for. It is evident that the very same event, which,
by its certainty, would produce grief or joy, gives always rise
to fear or hope, when only probable and uncertain. In order,
therefore, to understand the reason why this circumstance
makes such a considerable difference, we must reflect on
what I have already advanced in the preceJing book con-
cerning the nature of probability.

Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances
or causes, by which the mind is not allowed to fix on either
side, but is incessantly tossed from one to another, and at
one moment is determined to consider an object as existent,
and at another moment as the contrary. The imagination
or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates betwixt
the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener
turned to the one side than the other, it is impossible for it,
by reason of the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on
either. The pro and con of the question alternately prevail;
and the mind, surveying the object in its opposite principles,
finds such a contrariety as utterly destroys all certainty and
estabhshed opinion.

.Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality
we are doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, it is
evident that, according as the mind turns itself either to the
one side or the other, it must feel a momentary impression of
joy or sorrow. An object, whose existence we desire, gives
satisfaction, when we reflect on those causes which produce
it; and, for the same reason, excites grief or uneasiness from
the opposite consideration : so that as the understanding, in
all probable questions, is divided betwixt the contrary points
of view, the affections must in the same manner be divided
betwixt opposite emotions.

Now, if we consider the human mind, we shall find that,
with regard to the passions, it is not of the nature of a wind-
instrument of music, which, in running over all the notes.

150 Hume's Philosophical Works

immediately loses the sound after the breath ceases; but
rather resembles a string-instrument^ where, after each
stroke, the vibrations still retain some sound, which gradually
and insensibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick
and agile; but the passions are slow and restive; for which
reason, when any object is presented that affords a variety of
views to the one, and emotions to the other, though the fancy
may change its views with great celerity, each stroke will not
produce a clear and distinct note of passion, but the one
passion will always be mixed and confounded with the other.
According as the probability inclines to good or evil, the
passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition:
because the nature of probability is to cast a superior number
of views or chances on one side; or, which is the same thing,
a superior number of returns of one passion; or, since the
dispersed passions are collected into one, a superior degree of
that passion. That is, in other words, the grief and joy
being intermingled with each other, by means of the contrary
views of the imagination, produce by their union, the passions
of hope and fear.

Upon this head there may be started a very curious ques-
tion concerning that contrariety of passions which is our
present subject. It is observable, that where the objects of
contrary passions are presented at once, beside the increase
of the predominant passion (which has been already ex-
plained, and commonly arises at their first shock or ren-
counter), it sometimes happens that both the passions exist
successively, and by short intervals; sometimes that they
destroy each other, and neither of them takes place; and
sometimes that both of them remain united in the mind. It
may therefore be asked, by what theory we can explain these
variations, and to what general principle we can reduce them.

When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely
different, they take place alternately, the want of relation in
the ideas separating the impressions from each other, and
preventing their opposition. Thus, when a man is afflicted
for the loss of a lawsuit, and joyful for the birth of a son,
the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous
object, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion,
can scarcely temper the one affection with the other, and
remain betwixt them in a state of indifference.

Of the Passions 151

It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same
event is of a mixed nature, and contains something adverse
and something prosperous in its different circumstances. For
in that case, both the passions, mingling with each other by
means of the relation, become mutually destructive, and
leave the mind in perfect tranquillity.

But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a
compound of good or evil, but is considered as probable or
improbable in any degree; in that case, I assert that the
contrary passions will both of them be present at once in the
soul, and, instead of destroying and tempering each other,
will subsist together, and produce a third impression or affec-
tion by their union. Contrary passions are not capable of
destroying each other, except when their contrary move-
ments exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their directions,
as well as in the sensation they produce. This exact ren-
counter depends upon the relations of those ideas from which
they are derived, and is more or less perfect, according to the
degrees of the relation. In the case of probability, the con-
trary chances are so far related that they determine concern-
ing the existence or non-existence of the same object. But
this relation is far from being perfect, since some of the
chances lie on the side of existence, and others on that of
non-existence, which are objects altogether incompatible.
It is impossible, by one steady view, to survey the opposite
chances, and the events dependent on them; but it is
necessary that the imagination should run alternately from
the one to the other. Each view of the imagination produces
its peculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is
followed by a sensible vibration after the stroke. The
incompatibility of the views keeps the passions from shocking
in a direct line, if that expression may be allowed; and yet
their relation is sufficient to mingle their fainter emotions.
It is after this manner that hope and fear arise from the
different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy,
and from their imperfect union and conjunction.

Upon the v/hole, contrary passions succeed each other
alternately, when they arise from different objects; they
mutually destroy each other, when they proceed from
different parts of the same; and they subsist, both of them,
and mingle together, when they are derived from the con-

152 Hume's Philosophical Works

trary and incompatible chances or possibilities on which any-
one object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas
is plainly seen in this whole affair. If the objects of the
contrary passions be totally different, the passions are like
two opposite liquors in different bottles, which have no
influence on each other. If the objects be intimately con-
nected, the passions are like an alkali and an acid, which,
being mingled, destroy each other. If the relation be more
imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same
object, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however
mingled, never perfectly unite and incorporate.

As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own
evidence along with it, we shall be the more concise in our
proofs. A few strong arguments are better than many weak
ones.

The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances
are equal on both sides, and no superiority can be discovered
in the one above the other. Nay, in this situation the
passions are rather the strongest, as the mind has then the
least foundation to rest upon, and it is tossed with the greatest
uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to
the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse
itself over the composition, and tincture it into fear. In-
crease the probability, and by that m.eans the grief, the fear
prevails still more and more, till at last it runs insensibly, as
the joy continually diminishes, into pure grief. After you
have brought it to this situation, diminish the grief, after
the same manner that you increased it, by diminishing the
probability on that side, and you will see the passion clear
every moment, till it changes insensibly into hope; which
again runs, after the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy,
as you increase that part of the composition by the increase
of the probability. Are not these as plain proofs, that the
passions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy, as in
optics it is a proof, that a coloured ray of the sun passing
through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as you
diminish or increase the quantity of either, you find it prevail
proportionably more or less in the composition? I am sure
neither natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger
proofs.

Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really

Of the Passions i 53

in itself uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or
when, though the object be already certain, yet it is uncertain
to our judgment, which finds a number of proofs on each side
of the question. Both these kinds of probabilities cause fear
and hope; which can only proceed from that property, in
which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation they
bestow on the imagination by the contrariety of views which
is common to both.

It is a probable good or evil that commonly produces hope
or fear; because probability, being a wavering and uncon-
stant method of surveying an object, causes naturally a hke
mixture and uncertainty of passion. But we may obsei-ve,
that wherever, from other causes, this mixture can be pro-
duced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, even though
there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a
convincing proof of the present hypothesis.

We find that an evil, barely conceived as possible, does
sometimes produce fear; especially if the evil be very great.
A man cannot think of excessive pains and tortures without
trembling, if he be in the least danger of suft'ering them.
The smallness of the probability is compensated by the
greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally lively, as
if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse of the
former has the same effect as several of the latter.

But they are not only possible evils that cause fear, but
even some allowed to be impossible ; as when we tremble on
the brink of a precipice, though we know ourselves to be in
perfect security, and have it in our choice whether we will
advance a step further. This proceeds from the immediate
presence of the evil, which influences the imagination in the
, same manner as the certainty of it would do; but being
encountered by the reflection of our security, is immediately
retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when,
from a contrariety of chances, contrary passions are pro-
duced.

Evils that are certain have sometimes the same effect in
producing fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus a man in
a strong prison well guarded, without the least means of
escape, trembles at the thought of the rack to which he is
sentenced. This happens only when the certain evil is
i terrible and confounding; in which case the mind continually

154 Hume's Philosophical Works

rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in upon
the thought. The evil is there fixed and estabHshed, but
the mind cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctua-
tion and uncertainty there arises a passion of much the same
appearance with fear.

But it is not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its
existence, but also as to its kind, that fear or hope arises.
Let one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt
of, that one of his sons is suddenly killed, it is evident the
passion this event would occasion, would not settle into pure
grief, till he got certain information which of his sons he had
lost. Here there is an evil certain, but the kind of it uncer-
tain : consequently the fear we feel on this occasion is without
the least mixture of joy, and arises merely from the fluctua-
tion of the fancy betwixt its objects. And though each side
of the question produces here the same passion, yet that
passion cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a
tremulous and unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as
well as in its sensation, the mixture and contention of grief
and joy.

From these principles we may account for a phenomenon
in the passions, which at first sight seems very extraordinary,
viz. that surprise is apt to change into fear, and ever}i;hing
that is unexpected affrights us. The most obvious conclu-
sion from this is, that human nature is in general pusillani-
mous; since, upon the sudden appearance of any object, we
immediately conclude it to be an evil, and, without waiting
till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad,
are at first affected with fear. This, I say, is the most
obvious conclusion; but upon further examination, we shall
find that the phenomenon is otherwise to be accounted for.
The suddenness and strangeness of an appearance naturally
excite a commotion in the mind, like everything for which
we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed.
This commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or
inquisitiveness, which, being very violent, from the strong
and sudden impulse of the object, becomes uneasy, and
resembles in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the sensation
of fear, or the mixed passions of grief and joy. This image
of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and gives us
a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its

Of the Passions 155

judgments more from its present disposition than from the
nature of its objects.

Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connection
with fear, even though they do not cause any opposition of
passions by the opposite views and considerations they
present to us. A person who has left his friend in any
malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account than if he
were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of
giving him assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of
his sickness. In this case, though the principal object of
the passion, viz. the life or death of his friend, be to him
equally uncertain when present as when absent; yet there are
a thousand httle circumstances of his friend's situation and
cc.idition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and pre-
%-ents that fluctuation and uncertainty so nearly allied to
fear. Uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect, as nearly allied
to hope as to fear, since it makes an essential part in the
composition of the former passion; but the reason why it
inclines not to that side is, that uncertainty alone is uneasy,
and has a relation of impressions to the uneasy passions.

It is thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circum-
stance relating to a person, increases our apprehensions of
his death or misfortune. Horace has remarked this pheno-
menon:—

Ut assidens implumibus puUus avis

Serpentium allapsus timet,
Magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili

Latura plus presentibus.

But this principle of the connection of fear with uncertainty
I carr}' further, and observe, that any doubt produces that
passion, even though it presents nothing to us on any side
but what is good and desirable. A virgin, on her bridal-
night goes to bed full of fears and apprehensions, though she
expects nothing but pleasure of the highest kind, and what
she has long wished for. The newness and greatness of the
event, the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the
mind, that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from
whence arises a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which
being, in some degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates
into fear.

Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or

156 Hume's Philosophical Works

mixture of passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always
produces fear, or at least a passion so like it, that they are
scarcely to be distinguished.

I have here confined myself to the examination of hope and
fear in their most simple and natural situation, without con-
sidering all the variations they may receive from the mixture
of different views and reflections. Terror, consternation,
astonishnent, anxiety, and other passions of that kind, are
nothing but different species and degrees of fear. It is easy
to imagine how a different situation of the object, or a different
turn of thought, may change even the sensation of a passion;
and this may in general account for all the particular sub-
divisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. Love
may show itself in the shape of tenderness, friendship, intimacy,
esteem, good-will, and in many other appearances; which at
the bottom are the same affections, and arise from the same
causes, though with a small variation, which it is not neces-
sary to give any particular account of. It is for this reason I
have all along confined myself to the principal passion.

The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I
waive the examination of the will and direct passions, as they
appear in animals; since nothing is more evident, than that
they are of the same nature, and excited by the same causes
as in human creatures. I leave this to the reader's own
observation, desiring him at the same time to consider the
additional force this bestows on the present system.

SECTION X

OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH

But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run
over so many different parts of the human mind, and examine
so many passions, without taking once into consideration that
love of truth, which was the first source of all our inquiries.
It will therefore be proper, before we leave this subject, to
bestow a few reflections on that passion, and show its origin in
human nature. It is an affection of so peculiar a kind, that
it would have been impossible to have treated of it under

Of the Passions 157

any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger
of obscurity and confusion.

Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery
of the proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the con-
formity of our ideas of objects to their real existence. It is
certain that the former species of truth is not desired merely
as truth, and that it is not the justness of our conclusions,
which alone gives the pleasure. For these conclusions are
equally just, when we discover the quality of two bodies by
a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical
demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be
demonstrative, and in the other only sensible, yet generally
speaking, the mind acquiesces with equal assurance in the
one as in the other. And in an arithmetical operation, where
both the truth and the assurance are of the same nature, as in
the most profound algebraical problem, the pleasure is very
inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate into pain:
which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we
sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not
from it, merely as such, but only as endowed with certain
qualities.

The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to
render truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity which is
employed in its invention and discovery. What is easy and
obvious is never valued ; and even what is m itself difhcul i,
if we come to the knowledge of it without difficulty, and with-
out any stretch of thought or judgment, is but little regarded.
We love to trace the demonstrations of mathematicians; but
should receive small entertainment from a person who should
barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, though
we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and
veracity. In this case it is sufficient to have ears to learn
the truth. We never are obliged to fix our attention or exert
our genius; which of all other exercises of the mind is the
most pleasant and agreeable.

But though the exercise of genius be the principal source
of that satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt
if it be alone sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment.
The truth we discover must also be of some importance. It
is easy to multiply algebraical problems to infinity, nor is
there any end in the discovery of the proportions of conic

158 Hume's Philosophical Works

sections; though few mathematicians take any pleasure in
these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is more use-
ful and important. Now the question is, after what manner
this utility and importance operate upon us ? The difficulty
on this head arises from hence, that many philosophers
have consumed their time, have destroyed their health, and
neglected their fortune, in the search of such truths as
they esteemed important and useful to the world, though it
appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour that they
were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had any
concern for the interests of mankind. Were they convinced
that their discoveries were of no consequence, they would
entirely lose all relish for their studies, and that though the
consequences be entirely indifferent to them; which seems
to be a contradiction.

To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that
there are certain desires and inclinations, which go no further
than the imagination, and are rather the faint shadows and
images of passions, than any real affections. Thus, suppose
a man, who takes a survey of the fortifications of any city;
considers their strength and advantages, natural or acquired;
observes the disposition and contrivance of the bastions,
ramparts, mines, and other military works; it is plain that,
in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he will
receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure,
as it arises from the utility, not the form of the object, can
be no other than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose
security all this art is employed; though it is possible that
this person, as a stranger or an enemy may in his heart have
no kindness for them, or may even entertain a hatred against
them.

It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is
a very slight foundation for a passion, and that so much in-
dustry and application, as we frequently observe in philo-
sophers, can never be derived from so inconsiderable an
original. But here I return to what I have already remarked,
that the pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action of the
mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the
discovery or comprehension of any truth. If the import-
ance of the truth be requisite to complete the pleasure, it is
not on account of any considerable addition which of itself

Of the Passions 159

it brings to our enjoyment, but only because it is in some
measure requisite to fix our attention. When we are careless
and inattentive, the same action of the understanding has
no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satis-
faction which arises from it when we are in another disposi-
tion.

But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal
foundation of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree
of success in the attainment of the end, or the discovery of
that truth we examine. Upon this head I shall make_ a
general remark, which may be useful on many occasions, viz,
that where the mind pursues any end with passion, though
that passion be not derived originally from the end, but
merely from the action and pursuit, yet, by the natural course
of the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and
are uneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the
pursuit of it. This proceeds from the relation and parallel
direction of the passions above mentioned.

To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe,
that there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling
each other than those of hunting and philosophy, whatever
disproportion may at first sight appear betwixt them. It is
evident that the pleasure of hunting consists in the action of
the mind and body; the motion, the attention, the difficulty,
and the uncertainty. It is evident, likewise, that these
actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to
their having any effect upon us. A man of the greatest
fortune, and the furthest removed from avarice, though he
takes a pleasure in hunting after partridges and pheasants,
feels no satisfaction in shooting crows and magpies; and that
because he considers the first as fit for the table, and the
other as entirely useless. Here it is certain, that the utility
or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only
requisite to support the imagination; and the same person
who overlooks a ten times greater profit in any other subject,
is pleased to bring home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers,
after having employed several hours in hunting after themj
To make the parallel betwixt hunting and philosophy more
complete, we may observe that, though in both cases the
end of our action may in itself be despised, yet, in the heat
of the action, we acquire such an attention to this end, that we

i6o Hume's Philosophical Works

are very uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry
when we either miss our game, or fall into any error in our

reasonmg.

If we want another parallel to these affections, we may
consider the passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure
from the same principles as hunting and philosophy. It
has been remarked that the pleasure of gaming arises not
from interest alone, since many leave a sure gain for this
entertainment; neither is it derived from the game alone,
since the same persons have no satisfaction when they play
for nothing; but proceeds from both these causes united,
though separately they have no effect. It is here, as in certain
chemical preparations, where the mixture of two clear and
transparent liquids produces a third, which is opaque and
coloured.

The interest which we have in any game engages our atten-
tion, without which we can have no enjoyment, either in that
or in any other action. Our attention being once engaged,
the difficulty, variety, and sudden reversion of fortune, still
further interests us; and it is from that concern our satis-
faction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and men
generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever
amuses them, though by a passion mi:\ed with pain, does in
the main give them a sensible pleasure. And this pleasure is
here increased by the nature of the objects, which, being
sensible and of a narrow compass, are entered into with
facihty, and are agreeable to the imagination.

The same theory that accounts for the love of truth in
mathematics and algebra, may be extended to morals, politics,
natural philosophy, and other studies, where we consider not
the abstract relations of ideas, but their real connections and
existence. But besides the love of knowledge which displays
itself in the sciences, there is a certain curiosity implanted
in human nature, which is a passion derived from a quite
different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire
of knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours,
though their interest be no way concerned in them, and they
must entirely depend on others for their information; in
which case there is no room for study or application. Let us
search for the reason of this phenomenon.

It has been proved at large, that the influence of belief

Of the Passions i6i

is at once to enliven and infix any idea in the imagination,
and prevent all kind of hesitation and uncertainty about
it. Both these circumstances are advantageous. By the
vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy^ and produce^ though
in a lesser degree^ the same pleasure which arises from a
moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure,
so its certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular
idea in the mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice
of its objects. It is a quality of human nature which is con-
spicuous on many occasions, and is common both to the mind
and body, that too sudden and violent a change is unpleasant
to us, and that, however any objects may in themselves be
indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As it is
the nature of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and
transport us suddenly from one idea to another, it must of
consequence be the occasion of pain. This pain chiefly takes
place where interest, relation, or the greatness and novelty of
any event interests us in it. It is not every matter of fact of
which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are they
such only as we have an interest to know. It is sufficient if
the idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so
nearly, as to give us an uneasiness in its instability and in-
constancy. A stranger, when he arrives first at any town,
may be entirely indifferent about knowing the history and
adventures of the inhabitants; but as he becomes further
acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable time
among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives.
When we are reading the history of a nation, we may have
an ardent desire of clearing up any doubt or difficulty
that occurs in it; but become careless in such researches,
when the ideas of these events are, in a great measure,
obliterated.

II

BOOK III
OF MORALS

PART I
OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL

SECTION I

MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON

There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse
reasoning, that it may silence, without convincing an
antagonist, and requires the same intense study to make
us sensible of its force, that was at first requisite for its
invention. When we leave our closet, and engage in the
common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish like the
phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning;
and it is difficult for us to retain even that conviction which
we had attained with difficulty. This is still more con-
spicuous in a long chain of reasoning, where we must preserve
to the end the evidence of the first propositions, and where
we often lose sight of all the most received maxims, either of
philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without
hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new
force as it advances; and that our reasonings concerning
morals will corroborate whatever has been said concerning
the understanding and the passions. Morality is a subject
that interests us above all others; we fancy the peace of
society to be at stake in every decision concerning it; and it
is evident that this concern must make our speculations
appear more real and solid, than where the subject is in a
great measure indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude,
can never be a chimera; and, as our passion is engaged on
the one side or the other, we naturally think that the question
lies within human comprehension; which, in other cases of
this nature, we are apt to entertain some doubt of. Without
this advantage, I never should have ventured upon a third
volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age wherein the

165

I 66 Hume's Philosophical Works

greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into an
amusement, and to reject everything that requires any con-
siderable degree of attention to be comprehended.

It has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the
mind but its perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing,
hearing, judging, loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this
denomination. The mind can never exert itself in any action
which we may not comprehend under the term of perception ;
and consequently that term is no less applicable to those
judgments by which we distinguish moral good and evil,
than to every other operation of the mind. To approve of
one character, to condemn another, are only so many different
perceptions.

Now, as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds,
viz. impressions and ideas, this distinction gives rise to a
question, with which we shall open up our present inquiry
concerning morals, whether it is by means of our ideas or im-
pressions we distinguish betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce
an action blamable or praiseworthy ? This will immediately
cut off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce us to
something precise and exact on the present subject.

Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity
to reason; that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses
of things, which are the same to every rational being that
considers them; that the immutable measure of right and
wrong impose an obligation, not only on human creatures,
but also on the Deity himself: all these systems concur in
the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned merely by
ideas, and by their juxtaposition and comparison. In order,
therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider
whether it be possible from reason alone, to distinguish
betwLxt moral good and evil, or whether there must concur
some other principles to enable us to make that dis-
tinction.

If morality had naturally no influence on human passions
and actions, it were in vain to take such pains to inculcate
it; and nothing would be more fruitless than that multitude
of rules and precepts with which all moralists abound.
Philosophy is commonly divided into speculative and practical;
and as morality is always comprehended under the latter
division, it is supposed to influence our passions and actions,

Of Morals 167

and to go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the
understanding. And this is confirmed by common experi-
ence, which informs us that men are often governed by their
duties, and are deterred from some actions by the opinion of
injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation.

Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions
and affections, it follows that they cannot be derived from
reason; and that because reason alone, as we have already
proved, can never have any such influence. Morals excite
passions, and produce or prevent actions. Reason of itself
is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules of morality,
therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.

No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference;
nor is there any other means of evading it, than by denying
that principle on which it is founded. As long as it is allowed,
that reason has no influence on our passions and actions, it is
in vain to pretend that morality is discovered only by a
deduction of reason. An active principle can never be
founded on an inactive ; and if reason be inactive in itself, it
must remain so in all its shapes and appearances, whether it
exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, whether it considers
the powers of external bodies, or the actions of rational
beings.

It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments by which
I have proved ^ that reason is perfectly inert, and can never
either prevent or produce any action or affection. It will
be easy to recollect what has been said upon that subject. I
shall only recall on this occasion one of these arguments,
which I shall endeavour to render still more conclusive, and
more applicable to the present subject.

Reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or
falsehood consists in an agreement or disagreement either to
the real relations of ideas, or to real existence and matter of
fact. Whatever therefore is not susceptible of this agree-
ment or disagreement, is incapable of being true or false, and
can never be an object of our reason. Now, it is evident our
passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of any
such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and
realities, complete in themselves, and implying no reference
to other passions, volitions, and actions. It is impossible,
' Book II, Part III. Sect. 3.

1 68 Hume's Philosophical Works

therefore, they can be pronounced either true or false, and
be either contrary or conformable to reason.

This argument is of double advantage to our present
purpose. For it proves directly, that actions do not derive
their merit from a conformity to reason, nor their blame
from a contrariety to it; and it proves the same truth more
indirectly, by showing us, that as reason can never immedi-
ately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or
approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and
evil, which are found to have that influence. Actions may
be laudable or blamable; but they cannot be reasonable or
unreasonable: laudable or blamable, therefore, are not the
same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit and de-
merit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes control
our natural propensities. But reason has no such influence.
Moral distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason.
Reason is wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so
active a principle as conscience, or a sense of morals.

But perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action
can be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may
find such a contradiction in some of the attendants of the
actions, that is, in its causes or effects. The action may
cause a judgment, or may be obliquely caused by one, when
the judgment concurs with a passion; and by an abusive
way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow of, the
same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the
action. How far this truth or falsehood may be the source
of morals, it will now be proper to consider.

It has been observed that reason, in a strict and philo-
sophical sense, can have an influence on our conduct only
after two ways : either when it excites a passion, by informing
us of the existence of something which is a proper object of
it; or when it discovers the connection of causes and effects,
so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. These are
the only kinds of judgment which can accompany our actions,
or can be said to produce them in any manner; and it must
be allowed, that these judgments may often be false and
erroneous. A person may be affected with passion, by
supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an object which has no
tendency to produce either of these sensations, or which
produces the contrary to what is imagined. A person may

Of Morals 169

also take false measures for the attaining of his end^ and may
retard, by his fooHsh conduct, instead of forwarding the
execution of any object. These false judgments may be
thought to affect the passions and actions, which are con-
nected with them, and may be said to render them unreason-
able, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. But
though this be acknowledged, it is easy to observe, that these
errors are so far from being the source of all immorality, that
they are commonly very innocent, and draw no manner of
guilt upon the person who is so unfortunate as to fall into
them. They extend not beyond a mistake of fact, which
morahsts have not generally supposed criminal, as being
perfectly involuntary. I am more to be lamented than
blamed, if I am mistaken with regard to the influence of
objects in producing pain or pleasure, or if I know not the
proper means of satisfying my desires. No one can ever
regard such errors as a defect in my moral character. A
fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me
at a distance, and, through mistake, I fancy it to be pleasant
and delicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means
of reaching this fruit, which are not proper for my end.
Here is a second error; nor is there any third one, which can
ever possibly enter into our reasonings concerning actions.
I ask, therefore, if a man in this situation, and guiltj^ of these
two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, however
unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be possible to
imagine that such errors are the sources of all immorality?

And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral dis-
tinctions be derived from the truth or falsehood of those
judgments, they must take place wherever we form the
judgments; nor will there be any difference, whether the
question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether
the error be avoidable or unavoidable.

For as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist
in an agreement or disagreement to reason, the other cir-
cumstances are entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow
on any action the character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive
it of that character. To which we may add, that this agree-
ment or disagreement, not admitting of degrees, all virtues
and vices would of course be equal.

Should it be pretended, that though a mistake oijact be

170 Hume's Philosophical Works

not criminal^ yet a mistake of right often is; and that this
may be the source of immorahty: I would answer, that it is
impossible such a mistake can ever be the original source of
immorality, since it supposes a real right and wrong; that
is, a real distinction in morals, independent of these judg-
ments. A mistake, therefore, of right, may become a species
of immorality; but it is only a secondary one, and is founded
on some other antecedent to it.

As to those judgments which are the effects of our actions,
and which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the
actions contrary to truth and reason; we may observe, that
our actions never cause any judgment, either true or false,
in ourselves, and that it is only on others they have such an
influence. It is certain that an action, on many occasions,
may give rise to false conclusions in others; and that a
person, who, through a window, sees any lewd behaviour of
mine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to
imagine she is certainly my own. In this respect my action
resembles somewhat a lie or falsehood ; only with this differ-
ence, which is material, that I perform not the action with
any intention of giving rise to a false judgment in another,
but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes, how-
ever, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the
falsehood of its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figura-
tive way of speaking, to the action itself. But still I can see
no pretext of reason for asserting, that the tendency to cause
such an error is the first spring or original source of all
immorality.^

^ One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a late
author, who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation, had
not seriously affirmed, that such a falsehood is the foundation of all
guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover the fallacy of his
hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn
from an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles,
which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by con-
trary causes, and renders the connection betwixt two objects uncertain
and variable. Now, as a like uncertainty and variety of causes take
place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in our judg-
ment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence of vice
and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects might
be vicious and immoral.

It is in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and
choice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action
produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect,
essential to morality; and I do not readily perceive, upon this system,

Of Morals 171

Thus, upon the whole, it is impossible that the distinction
betwixt moral good and evil can be made by reason; since
that distinction has an influence upon our actions, of which
reason alone is incapable. Reason and judgment may,
indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by prompting or
by directing a passion; but it is not pretended that a judg-
ment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended

how they can ever come to be regarded by it. If the tendency to cause
error be'the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would
in every case be inseparable.

Add to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the window,
while I indulged myself in those liberties with my neighboiu-'s wife, I
should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action,
being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any
false conclusion.

For the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window,
and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no respect
criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if he be it is impos-
sible he can produce any error, nor will an}^ one, from these circum-
stances, take him to be other than what he really is.

It is well known, that those who are squint-sighted do very readily
cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are talking
to one person, while they address themselves to another. Are they,
therefore, upon that account, immoral?

Besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is
an evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession of
another's goods, and uses them as his own, in a manner declares them
to be his own; and this falsehood is the source of the immorality of
injustice. But is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible without
an antecedent morality?

A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms that
he never received any favours from him. But in what manner? Is
it because it is his duty to be grateful? But this supposes that there
is some antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it because human
nature is generally grateful, and makes us conclude that a man who
does any harm, never receives any favour from the person he harmed?
But human nature is not so generally grateful as to justify such a con-
clusion; or, if it were, is an exception to a general rule in every case
criminal, for no other reason than because it is an exception?

But what may sufiice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is,
that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth
is virtuous and falsehood vicious, as to account for the merit or turpi-
tude of any other action. I shall allow, if you please, that all im-
morality is derived from this supposed falsehood in action, provided
you can give me any plausible reason why such a falsehood is immoral.
If you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the same
difficulty as at the beginning.

This last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not an
evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or falsehood,
it can never have any influence upon our actions. For who ever
thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly draw
false conclusions from it ? Or who ever performed any, that he might
give rise to true conclusions?

172 Hume's Philosophical Works

with virtue or vice. And as to the judgments, which are
caused by our judgments, they can still less bestow those
moral qualities on the actions which are their causes.

But, to be more particular, and to show that those eternal
immutable fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be
defended by sound philosophy, we may weigh the following
considerations.

If the thought and understanding were alone capable of
fixing the boundaries of right and wrong, the character of
virtuous and vicious either must lie in some relations of
objects, or must be a matter of fact which is discovered by
our reasoning. This consequence is evident. As the opera-
tions of human understanding divide themselves into two
kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter
of fact, were virtue discovered by the understanding, it must
be an object of one of these operations; nor is there an)'' third
operation of the understanding which can discover it. There
has been an opinion very industriously propagated by certain
philosophers, that morality is susceptible of demonstration;
and though no one has ever been able to advance a single step
in those demonstrations, yet it is taken for granted that this
science may be brought to an equal certainty with geometry
or algebra. Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must
consist in some relations; since it is allowed on all hands,
that no matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated.
Let us therefore begia with examining this hypothesis, and
endeavour, if possible, to fix those moral qualities which have
been so long the objects of our fruitless researches ; point out
distinctly the relations which constitute morality or obliga-
tion, that we may know wherein they consist, and after what
manner we must judge of them.

If you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations
susceptible of certainty and demonstration, you must confine
yourself to those Jour relations which alone admit of that
degree of evidence ; and in that case you run into absurdities
from which you will never be able to extricate yourself.
For as you make the very essence of morality to lie in the
relations, and as there is no one of these relations but what
is applicable, not only to an irrational but also to an inanimate
object, it follows that even such objects must be susceptible
of merit or demerit. Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in

Of Morals 173

quality, and proportmis in quantity and number ; all these
relations belong as properly to matter as to our actions,
passions, and volitions. It is unquestionable, therefore,
that morality lies not in any of these relations, nor the sense
of it in their discovery.^

Should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists
in the discovery of some relation distinct from these, and that
our enumeration was not complete when we comprehended
all demonstrable relations under four general heads ; to this
I know not what to reply, till some one be so good as to point
out to me this new relation. It is impossible to refute a
system which has never yet been explained. In such a
manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the
air, and often places them where the enemy is not present.

I must therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with
requiring the two following conditions of any one that would
undertake to clear up this system. First, as moral good and
evil belong only to the actions of the mind, and are derived
from our situation with regard to external objects, the
relations from which these moral distinctions arise must lie
only betwixt internal actions and external objects, and
must not be applicable either to internal actions, compared
among themselves, or to external objects, when placed in
opposition to other external objects. For as morality is
supposed to attend certain relations, if these relations could
belong to internal actions considered singly, it would follow,
that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and indepen-
dent of our situation with respect to the universe; and in

^ As a proof how confused our way of thinking on this subject
commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert that morality is
demonstrable, do not say that morality lies in the relations, and that
the relations are distinguishable by reason. They only say, that
reason can discover such an action, in such relations, to be virtuous,
and such another vicious. It seems they thought it sufficient if they
could bring the word Relation into the proposition, without troubling
themselves whether it was to the purpose or not. But here, I think,
is plain argument. Demonstrative reason discovers only relations.
But that reason, according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and
virtue. These moral qualities, therefore, must be relations. When
we blame any action, in any situation, the whole complicated object of
action and situation must form certain relations, wherein the essence
of vice consists. This hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. For
what does reason discover, when it pronounces any action vicious?
Does it discover a relation or a matter of fact? These questions are
decisive, and must not be eluded.

174 Hume's Philosophical Works

like manner, if these moral relations could be applied to
external objects, it would follow that even inanimate beings
would be susceptible of moral beauty and defonnity. Now,
it seems difficult to imagine that any relation can be dis-
covered betwixt our passions, volitions, and actions, com-
pared to external objects, which relation might not belong
either to these passions and volitions, or to these external
objects, compared among themselves.

But it will be still more difficult to fulfil the second condi-
tion, requisite to justify this system. According to the
principles of those who maintain an abstract rational
difference betwixt moral good and evil, and a natural fitness
and unfitness of things, it is not only supposed, that these
relations, being eternal and immutable, are the same, when
considered by every rational creature, but their effects are
also supposed to be necessarily the same ; and it is concluded
they have no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing
the will of the Deity, than in governing the rational and
virtuous of our own species. These two particulars are
evidently distinct. It is one thing to know virtue, and
another to conform the will to it. In order, therefore, to
prove that the measures of right and wrong are eternal laws,
obligatory on every rational mind, it is not sufficient to show
the relations upon which they are founded: we must also
point out the connection betwixt the relation and the will;
and must prove that this connection is so necessary, that in
ever)' well-disposed mind, it must take place and have its
influence; though the difference betwixt these minds be in
other respects immense and infinite. Now, besides what I
have already proved, that even in human nature no relation
can ever alone produce any action; besides this, I say, it
has been shown, in treating of the understanding, that there
is no connection of cause and effect, such as this is supposed
to be, which is discoverable otherwise than by experience,
and of which we can pretend to have any security by the
simple consideration of the objects. All beings in the
universe, considered in themselves, appear entirely loose
and independent of each other. It is only by experience
we learn their influence and connection; and this influence
we ought never to extend beyond experience. I '

Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the first condition

Of Morals 175

required to the system of eternal rational measures of right
and wrong; because it is impossible to show those relations,
upon which such a distinction may be founded: and it is as
impossible to fulfil the second condition ; because we cannot
prove a priori, that these relations, if they really existed and
were perceived, would be universally forcible and obligatory.
But to make these general reflections more clear and
convincing, we may illustrate them by some particular
instances, wherein this character of moral good or evil is
the most universally acknowledged. Of all crimes that
human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid
and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed
against parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances
of wounds and death. This is acknowledged by all mankind,
philosophers as well as the people: the question only arises
among philosophers, whether the guilt or moral deformity
of this action be discovered by demonstrative reasoning, or
be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some sentiment,
which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions.
This question will soon be decided against the former opinion,
if we can show the same relations in other objects, without
the notion of any guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason
or science is nothing but the comparing of ideas, and the
discovery of their relations; and if the same relations have
different characters, it must evidently follow, that those
characters are not discovered merely by reason. To put the
affair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any inanimate
object, such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that, by
the dropping of its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which,
springing up by degrees, at last overtops and destroys the
parent tree : I ask, if, in this instance, there be wanting any
relation which is discoverable in parricide or ingratitude?
Is not the one tree the cause of the other's existence; and
the latter the cause of the destruction of the former, in the
same manner as when a child murders his parent ? It is not
sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. For in
the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any different
relations, but is only the cause from which the action is
derived ; and consequently produces the same relations, that
in the oak or elm arise from some other principles. It is
a will or choice that determines a man to kill his parent:

176 Hume's Philosophical Works

and they are the laws of matter and motion that determine
a sapling to destroy the oak from which it sprung. Here then
the same relations have different causes; but still the relations
are the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases
attended with a notion of immorality, it follows, that that
notion does not arise from such a discovery.

But to choose an instance still more resembling; I would
fain ask any one, why incest in the human species is criminal,
and why the very same action, and the same relations in
animals, have not the smallest moral turpitude and de-
formity.? If it be answered, that this action is innocent
in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to dis-
cover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that
faculty, which ought to restrain him to his duty, the same
action instantly becomes criminal to him. Should this be
said, I would reply, that this is evidently arguing in a circle.
For, before reason can perceive this turpitude, the turpitude
must exist; and consequently is independent of the decisions
of our reason, and is their object more properly than their
effect. According to this system, then, every animal that
has sense and appetite and will, that is, every animal must
be susceptible of all the same virtues and vices, for which
we ascribe praise and blame to human creatures. All the
difference is, that our superior reason may serve to discover
the vice or virtue, and by that means may augment the blame
or praise: but still this discovery supposes a separate being
in these moral distinctions, and a being which depends only
on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and
reality, may be distinguished from reason. Animals are
susceptible of the same relations with respect to each other
as the human species, and therefore would also be susceptible
of the same morality, if the essence of morality consisted in
these relations. Their want of a sufficient degree of reason
may hinder them from perceiving the duties and obhgations of
morality, but can never hinder these duties from existing;
since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being
perceived. Reason must find them, and can never produce
them. This argument deserves to be weighed, as being,
in my opinion, entirely decisive.

Nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists
not in any relations that are the objects of science; but if

Of Morals 177

examined^ will prove with equal certainty, that it consists
not in any matter of fact, which can be discovered by the
understanding. This is the second part of our argument;
and if it can be made evident, we may conclude that morality
is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty
in proving that vice and virtue are not matters of fact,
whose existence we can infer by reason? Take any action
allowed to be vicious ; wilful murder, for instance. Examine
it in all lights, and see if you can find that matter of fact,
or real existence, which you call vice. In whichever way you
take it, you find only certain passions, motives, volitions,
and thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case.
The vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the
object. You never can find it, till you turn your reflection
into your own breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation,
which arises in you, towards this action. Here is a matter
of fact; but it is the object of feeling, not of reason. It lies
in yourself, not in the object. So that when you pronounce
an)'^ action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but
that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling
or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice
and virtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours,
heat, and cold, which, according to modern philosophy, are
not qualities in objects, but perceptions in the mind: and this
discovery in morals, like that other in physics, is to be
regarded as a considerable advancement of the speculative
sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no influence on
practice. Nothing can be more real, or concern us more,
than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if
these be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no
more can be requisite to the regulation of our conduct and
behaviour.

I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation,
which may, perhaps, be found of some importance. In
every system of morality which I have hitherto met with,
I have always remarked, that the author proceeds for some
time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and establishes the
being of a God, or makes observations concerning human
affairs; when of a sudden I am surprised to find, that instead
of the usual copulations of propositions, is, and is not, I
imeet with no proposition that is not connected with an

II M

178 Hume's Philosophical Works

ought, or an ought not. This change is imperceptible; but
is, however, of the last consequence. For as this ought,
or ought not, expresses some new relation or affirmation, it is
necessary that it should be observed and explained; and at
the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems
altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a
deduction from others, which are entirely different from
it. But as authors do not commonly use this precaution,
I shall presume to recommend it to the readers; and am
persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all the
vulgar systems of morality, and let us see that the distinc-
tion of vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations
of objects, nor is perceived by reason.

SECTION II

MORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE

Thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that
since vice and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason,
or the comparison of ideas, it must be by means of somiC
impression or sentiment they occasion, that we are able to
mark the difference betwixt them. Our decisions concerning
moral rectitude and depravity are evidently perceptions;
and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, the
exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other.
Morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of;
though this feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and
gentle that we are apt to confound it with an idea^ according
to our common custom of taking all things for the same
which have any near resemblance to each other.

The next question is, of what nature are these impressions,
and after what manner do they operate upon us 7 Here we
cannot remain long in suspense, but must pronounce the
impression arising from virtue to be agi-eeable, and that
proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every moment's
experience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle
so fair and beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any
which gives us more abhorrence than one that is cruel and

Of Morals 179

treacherous. No enjoyment equals the satisfaction we receive
from the company of those we love and esteem; as the greatest
of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our lives with those
we hate or contemn. A very play or romance may afford
us instances of this pleasure which virtue convej^s to us; and
pain, which arises from vice.

Now, since the distinguishing impressions by which moral
good or evil is known, are nothing but particular pains or
pleasures, it follows, that in all inquiries concerning these
moral distinctions, it will be sufificient to show the principles
which make us feel a satisfaction or uneasiness from the
survey of any character, in order to satisfy us why the
character is laudable or blamable. An action, or sentiment,
or character, is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view
causes a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In
giving a reason, therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness,
we sufficiently explain the vice or virtue. To have the
sense of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a
particular kind from the contemplation of a character.
The Ytry feeling constitutes our praise or admiration. We
go no further; nor do we inquire into the cause of the satis-
faction. We do not infer a character to be virtuous, because
it pleases; but in feeling that it pleases after such a particular
manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous. The case is the
same as in our judgments concerning all kinds of beauty,
and tastes, and sensations. Our approbation is implied
in the immediate pleasure they convey to us.

I have objected to the system which establishes eternal
rational measures of right and wrong, that it is impossible
to show, in the actions of reasonable creatures, any relations
which are not found in external objects; and therefore, if
morality alwaj's attended these relations, it were possible for
inanimate matter to become virtuous or vicious. Now it
I may, in like manner, be objected to the present system,
that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain,
these qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations;
and consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate,
rational or irrational, might become morally good or evil,
I provided it can excite a satisfaction or uneasiness. But
though this objection seems to be the very same, it has by no
si I means the same force in the one case as in the other. For,

i8o Hume's Philosophical Works

first, it is evident that, under the term pleasure, we compre-
hend sensations, which are very different from each other,
and which have only such a distant resemblance as is requisite
to make them be expressed by the same abstract term. A
good composition of music and a bottle of good wine equally
produce pleasure; and, what is more, their goodness is
determined merely by the pleasure. But shall we say,
upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music
of a good flavour? In like manner, an inanimate object,
and the character or sentiments of any person, may, both of
them, give satisfaction; but, as the satisfaction is different,
this keeps our sentiments concerning them from being con-
founded, and makes us ascribe virtue to the one and not to
the other. Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or pain, which
arises from characters and actions, of that peculiar kind
which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities
of an enemy are hurtful to us, but may still command our
esteem and respect. It is only when a character is considered
in general, without reference to our particular interest, that
it causes such a feeling or sentiment as denominates it morally
good or evil. It is true, those sentiments from interest
and morals are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into
one another. It seldom happens that we do not think an
enemy vicious, and can distinguish betwixt his opposition
to our interest and real villainy or baseness. But this hinders
not but that the sentiments are in themselves distinct; and a
man of temper and judgment may preserve himself from
these illusions. In like manner, though it is certain a musical
voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a particular
kind of pleasure; yet it is difficult for a man to be sensible
that the voice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be
musical. But a person of a fine ear, who has the command
of himself, can separate these feelings, and give praise to
what deserves it.

Secondly, we may call to remembrance the preceding
system of the passions, in order to remark a still more consider-
able difference among our pains and pleasures. Pride and
humility, love and hatred, are excited, when there is any-
thing presented to us that both bears a relation to the object
of the passion, and produces a separate sensation, related
to the sensation of the passion. Now, virtue and vice are

Of Morals i8i

attended with these circumstances. They must necessarily
be placed either in ourselves or others, and excite either
pleasure or uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one
of these four passions, which clearly distinguishes them from
the pleasure and pain arising from inanimate objects, that
often bear no relation to us; and this is, perhaps, the most
considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon the human
mind.

It may now be asked, in general, concerning this pain or
pleasure that distinguishes moral good and evil, From what
principle is it derived, and whence does it arise in the human
?nind ? To this I reply, first, that it is absurd to imagine
that, in every particular instance, these sentiments are
produced by an original quality and primary constitution.
For as the number of our duties is in a manner infinite, it is
impossible that our original instincts should extend to each
of them, and from our very first infancy impress on the human
mind all that multitude of precepts which are contained in
the completest system of ethics. Such a method of proceed-
ing is not conformable to the usual maxims by which nature is
conducted, where a few principles produce all that variety
we observe in the universe, and everything is carried on in the
easiest and most simple manner. It is necessary, therefore,
to abridge these primary impulses, and find some more
general principles upon which all our notions of morals are
founded.

But, in the second place, should it be asked, whether we
ought to search for these principles in nature, or whether we
must look for them in some other origin? I would reply,
that our answer to this question depends upon the definition
of the word Nature, than which there is none more ambiguous
and equivocal. If nature be opposed to miracles, not only
the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, but also
every event which has ever happened in the world, excepting
those miracles on which our religion is founded. In sayings
then, that the sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in
this sense, we make no very extraordinary discovery.

But nature may also be opposed to rare and unusual;
and in this sense of the word, which is the common one,
there may often arise disputes concerning what is natural or
unnatural; and one may in general afhrm, that we are not

I 82 Hume's Philosophical Works

possessed of any very precise standard by which these dis-
putes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon the
number of examples we have observed; and as this number
may gradually increase or diminish, it will be impossible to
fix any exact boundaries betwixt them. We may only affirm
on this head, that if ever there was anything which could be
called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality
certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world,
nor any single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived
of them, and who never, in any instance, showed the least
approbation or dislike of manners. These sentiments are
so rooted in our constitution and temper, that, without
entirely confounding the human mind by disease or madness,
it is impossible to extirpate and destroy them.

But nature may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to
what is rare and unusual; and in this sense it may be dis-
puted, whether the notions of virtue be natural or not.
We readily forget that the designs, and projects, and views
of men are principles as necessary in their operation as
heat and cold, moist and dry; but, taking them to be free
and entirely our own, it is usual for us to set them in opposi-
tion to the other principles of nature. Should it therefore
be demanded, whether the sense of virtue be natural or
artificial, I am of opinion that it is impossible for me at
present to give any precise answer to this question. Per-
haps it will appear afterwards that our sense of some virtues
is artificial, and that of others natural. The discussion of
this question will be more proper, when we enter upon an
exact detail of each particualr vice and virtue.^

Meanwhile, it may not be amiss to observe, from these
definitions of natural and unnatural, that nothing can be
more unphilosophical than those systems which assert that
virtue is the same with what is natural, and vice with what
is unnatural. For, in the first sense of the word, nature,
as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue are equally
natural; and, in the second sense, as opposed to what is
unusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most un-
natural. At least it must be owned, that heroic virtue,

' In the following discourse, natural is also opposed sometimes to
civil, son:etimcs to moral. The opposition will always discover the
sense in which it is taken.

Of Morals 183

beinsr as unusual, is as little natural as the most brutal
barbarity. As to the third sense of the word^ it is certain that
both vice and virtue are equally artificial and out of nature.
For, however it may be disputed;, whether the notion of a
merit or demerit in certain actions, be natural or artificial,
it in evident that the actions themselves are artificial, and
performed with a certain design and intention; otherwise
they could never be ranked under any of these denominations.
It is impossible, therefore, that the character of natural and
unnatural can ever, in any sense, mark the boundaries of vice
and virtue.

Thus we are still brought back to our first position, that
virtue is distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain,
that any action, sentiment, or character, gives us by the mere
view and contemplation. This decision is very commodious;
because it reduces us to this simple question, Why any action
or sentiment, upon the general view or survey, gives a certain
satisfaction or uneasiness, in order to show the origin of its
moral rectitude or depravity, without looking for any in-
comprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist
in nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and
distinct conception? I flatter myself I have executed a great
part of my present design by a state of the question, which
appears to me so free from ambiguity and obscurity.

PART II

OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE

SECTION I

JUSTICE^ WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICAL VIRTUE?

I HAVE already hinted, that our sense of every kind of
virtue is not natural; but that there are some virtues that
produce pleasure and approbation by means of an artifice
or contrivance, which arises from the circumstances and
necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert justice to be;
and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, and,
I hope, convincing argument, before I examine the nature of
the artifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived.

It is evident that, when we praise any actions, we regard
only the motives that produced them, and consider the
actions as signs or indications of certain principles in the
mind and temper. The external performance has no merit.
We must look within to find the moral quality. This we
cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on
actions, as on external signs. But these actions are still
considered as signs; and the ultimate object of our praise
and approbation is the motive that produced them.

After the same manner, when we require any action, or
blame a person for not performing it, we always suppose
that one in that situation should be influenced by the proper
motive of that action, and we esteem it vicious in him to be
regardless of it. If we find, upon inquiry, that the virtuous
motive was still powerful over his breast, though checked in
its operation by some circumstances unknown to us, we
retract our blame, and have the same esteem for htm, as if
he had actually performed the action which we require of
him.

It, appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their

184

Of Morals 185

merit only from virtuous motives, and are considered merely
as signs of those motives. From this principle I conclude,
that the first virtuous motive which bestows a merit on any
action, can never be a regard to the virtue of that action,
but must be some other natural motive or principle. To
suppose that the mere regard to the virtue of the action,
may be the first motive which produced the action, and
rendered it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. Before we can
have such a regard, the action must be really virtuous ; and
this virtue must be derived from some virtuous motive : and,
consequently, the virtuous motive must be different from
the regard to the virtue of the action. A virtuous motive is
requisite to render an action virtuous. An action must be
virtuous before we can have a regard to its virtue. Some
virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard.

Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters
into all our reasonings in common life, though perhaps we
may not be able to place it in such distinct philosophical
terms. We blame a father for neglecting his child. VVTiy?
because it shows a want of natural affection, which is the
duty of every parent. Were not natural affection a duty,
the care of children could not be a duty; and it were im-
possible we could have the duty in our eye in the attention
we give to our offspring. In this case, therefore, all men
suppose a motive to the action distinct from a sense of duty.

Here is a man that does many benevolent actions ; relieves
the distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty
even to the greatest strangers. No character can be more
amiable and virtuous. We regard these actions as oroofs of
the greatest humanity. This humanity bestows a merit on
the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a secondary
consideration, and derived from the antecedent principles of
humanity, which is meritorious and laudable.

In short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim,
that no action can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be
in human nature some motive to produce it distinct from the
sense oj its morality.

But may not the sense of morality or duty produce an
action, without any other motive? I answer, it may: but
this is no objection to the present doctrine. When any
virtuous motive or principle is common in human nature, a

I 86 Hume's Philosophical Works

person who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may hate
himself upon that account, and may perform the action
without the motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to
acquire, by practice, that virtuous principle, or at least to
disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want of it. A
man that really feels no gratitude in his temper, is still
pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks he has, by
that means, fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only
considered as signs of motives: but it is usual, in this case,
as in all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect,
in some measure, the thing signified. But though, on some
occasions, a person may perform an action merely out of
regard to its moral obligation, yet still this supposes in
human nature some distinct principles, which are capable of
producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the
action meritorious.

Now, to apply all this to the present case; I suppose a
person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that it
be restored in a few days; and also suppose, that after the
expiration of the term agreed on, he demands the sum: I
ask. What reason or motive have I to restore the money ? It
will perhaps be said, that my regard to justice, and abhorrence
of villainy and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if I
have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obliga-
tion. And this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to
man in his civilised state, and when trained up according to a
certain discipline and education. But in his rude and more
natural condition, if you are pleased to call such a condition
natural, this answer would be rejected as perfectly unin-
telligible and sophistical. For one in that situation would
immediately ask you. Wherein consists this honesty and
justice, which you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from
the property oj others ? It does not surely lie in the extemr.l
action. It must, therefore, be placed in the motive from
which the external action is derived. This motive can never
be a regard to the honesty of the action. For it is a plain
fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render
an action honest, and, at the same time, that a regard to the
honesty is the motive of the action. We can never have a
regard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be ante-
cedently virtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far

Of Morals 187

as it proceeds from a virtuous motive. A virtuous motive,
therefore, must precede the regard to the virtue; and it is
impossible that the virtuous motive and the regard to the
virtue can be the same.

It is requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice
and honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and
in this lies the great difficulty. For should we say, that a
concern for our private interest or reputation, is the legiti-
mate motive to all honest actions: it would follow that
wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no longer have
place. But it is certain that self-love, when it acts at its
liberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source
of all injustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct
those vices, without correcting and restraining the natural
movements of that appetite.

But should it be affirmed that the reason or motive of such
actions is the regard to public interest, to which nothing is
more contrary than examples of injustice and dishonesty;
should this be said, I would propose the three following
considerations as worthy of our attention. First, Public
interest is not naturally attached to the observation of the
rules of justice: but is only connected with it, after an
artificial convention for the establishment of these rules, as
shall be shown more at large hereafter. Secondly, If we
suppose that the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for
the interest of the person, that the money be restored in the
same manner (as when the lender would conceal his riches),
in that case the example ceases, and the public is no longer
interested in the actions of the borrower; though I suppose
there is no moralist who will affirm that the duty and obliga-
tion ceases. Thirdly, Experience sufficiently proves that
men, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the
public interest, when they pay their creditors, perform their
promises, and abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice
of every kind. That is a motive too remote and too sublime
to affect the generality of mankind, and operate with any
force in actions so contrary to private interest as are fre-
quently those of justice and common honesty.

In general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion
in human minds as the love of mankind, merelv as such,
independent of personal qualities, of services, or of relation

I 88 Hume's Philosophical Works

to ourself. It is true^ there is no human, and indeed no
sensible creature, whose happiness or misery does not, in
some measure, affect us, when brought near us, and repre-
sented in hvely colours: but this proceeds merely from
sympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to
mankind, since this concern extends itself beyond our own
species. An affection betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently
implanted in human nature ; and this passion not only appears
in its peculiar symptoms, but also in inflaming every other
principle of affection, and raising a stronger love from beauty,
wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from them.
Were there an universal love among all human creatures, it
would appear after the same manner. Any degree of a good
quality would cause a stronger affection than the same
degree of a bad quality would cause hatred; contrary to
what we find by experience. Men's tempers are different,
and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to the
rougher affections : but in the main, we may affirm, that man
in general, or human nature, is nothing but the object both
of love and hatred, and requires some other cause, which, by
a double relation of impressions and ideas, may excite these
passions. In vain would we endeavour to elude this hypo-
thesis. There are no phenomena that point out any such
kind affection to men, independent of their merit, and every
other circumstance. We love company in general; but it is
as we love any other amusement. An Englishman in Italy
is a friend; an European in China; and perhaps a man
would be beloved as such, were we to meet him in the moon.
But this proceeds only from the relation to ourselves; which
in these cases gathers force by being confined to a few persons.
If public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests
of mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much
less can private benevolence , or a regard to the interests of the
party concerned, be this motive. For what if he be my
enemy, and has given me just cause to hate him? What if
he be a vicious man, and deserves the hatred of all mankind ?
What if he be a miser, and can make no use of what I would
deprive him of? What if he be a profligate debauchee, and
would rather receive harm than benefit from large posses-
sions? What if I be in necessity, and have urgent motives
to acquire something to my family? In all these cases, the

Of Morals 189

original motive to justice would fail; and consequently the
justice itselfj and along with it all property, right, and
obligation.

A rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate
to those in necessity a share of his superfluities. Were
private benevolence the original motive to justice a man
would not be obliged to leave others in the possession of more
than he is obliged to give them. At least, the difference
would be very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their affec-
tions more on what they are possessed of, than on what they
never enjoyed : for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to
dispossess a man of anything, than not to give it him. But
who will assert that this is the only foundation of justice.?

Besides, we must consider, that the chief reason why men
attach themselves so much to their possessions, is, that they
consider them as their property, and as secured to them
inviolably by the laws of society. But this is a secondary
consideration, and dependent on the preceding notions of
justice and property.

A man's property is supposed to be fenced against every
mortal, in every possible case. But private benevolence is,
and ought to be, weaker in some persons than in others : and
in many, or indeed in most persons, must absolutely fail.
Private benevolence, therefore, is not the original motive of
justice.

From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal
motive for observing the laws of equity, but the very equity
and merit of that observance; and as no action can be equit-
able or meritorious, where it cannot arise from some separate
motive, there is here an evident sophistry and reasoning in
a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow that nature has
established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and
unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and
injustice is not derived from nature, but arises artificially,
though necessarily, from education and human conventions.

I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no
action can be laudable or blamable, without some motives
or impelling passions, distinct from the sense of morals, these
distinct passions must have a great influence on that sense.
It is according to their general force in human nature that
we blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of animal

190 Hume's Philosophical Works

bodies, we always carry in our eye the economy of a certain
species: and where the limbs and features observe that
proportion which is common to the species, we pronounce
them handsome and beautiful. In like manner, we always
consider the natural and usual force of the passions, when we
determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the passions
depart very much from the common measures on either side,
they are always disapproved as vicious. A man naturally
loves his children better than his nephews, his nephews
better than his cousins, his cousins better than strangers,
where everything else is equal. Hence arise our common
measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other. Our
sense of duty always follows the common and natural course
of our passions.

To avoid giving offence, I must here observe, that when
I deny justice to be a natural virtue, I make use of the word
natural, only as opposed to artificial. In another sense of
the word, as no principle of the human mind is more natural
than a sense of virtue, so no virtue is more natural than
justice. ]\Iankind is an inventive species; and where an
invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as
properly be said to be natural as anything that proceeds
immediately from original principles, without the inter-
vention of thought or reflection. Though the rules of justice
be artificial, they are not arbitrary. Nor is the expression
improper to call them La2vs of Nature ; if by natural we
understand what is common to any species, or even if we
confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species.

SECTION II

OF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICE AND PROPERTY

We now proceed to examine two questions, viz. concerning
the manner in which the rules of justice are established by the
artifice of jnen ; and concerning the reasons which determifie
lis to attribute to the observance or neglect of these rules a moral
beauty and deformity. These questions will appear afterwards
to be distinct. We shall begin with the former.

Of Morals 191

Of all the animals with which this globe is peopled, there
is none towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have
exercised more cruelty than towards man, in the numberless
wants and necessities with which she has loaded him, and in
the slender means which she affords to the relieving these
necessities. In other creatures, these two particulars
generally compensate each other. If we consider the lion
as a voracious and carnivorous animal, we shall easily
discover him to be very necessitous; but if we turn our eye
to his make and temper, his agility, his courage, his arms,
and his force, we shall find that his advantages hold pro-
portion with his wants. The sheep and ox are deprived of
all these advantages; but their appetites are moderate, and
their food is of easy purchase. In man alone this unnatural
conjunction of infirmity and of necessity may be observed in
its greatest perfection. Not only the food which is required
for his sustenance flies his search and approach, or at least
requires his labour to be produced, but he must be possessed
of clothes and lodging to defend him against the injuries of
the weather; though, to consider him only in himself, he is
provided neither with arms, nor force, nor other natural
abilities which are in any degree answerable to so many
necessities.

It is by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and
raise himself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and
even acquire a superiority above them. By society all his
infirmities are compensated; and though in that situation
his wants multiply every moment upon him, yet his abilities
are still more augmented, and leave him in every respect
more satisfied and happy than it is possible for him, in his
savage and solitary condition, ever to become. When every
individual person labours apart, and only for himself, his
force is too small to execute any considerable work; his
labour being employed in supplying all hisdifferentnecessities,
he never attains a perfection in any particular art; and as
his force and success are not at all times equal, the least
failure in either of these particulars must be attended with
inevitable ruin and misery. Society provides a remedy for
these three inconveniences. By the conjunction of forces,
our power is augmented; by the partition of employments,
our ability increases; and by mutual succour, we are less

192 Hume's Philosophical Works

exposed to fortune and accidents. It is by this additional
force, ability; and security, that society becomes advantageous.
But, in order to form society, it is requisite not only that
it be advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these
advantages; and it is impossible, in their wild uncultivated
state, that by study and reflection alone the)' should ever be
able to attain this knowledge. Most fortunately, therefore,
there is conjoined to those necessities, whose remedies are
remote and obscure, another necessity, which, having a
present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded
as the first and original principle of human society. This
necessity is no other than that natural appetite betwLxt the
sexes, which unites them together, and preserves their union,
till a new tie takes place in their concern for their common
offspring. This new concern becomes also a principle of
union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms a more
numerous society, where the parents govern by the advantage
of their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time
are restrained in the exercise of their authority by that
natural affection which they bear their children. In a little
time, custom and habit, operating on the tender minds of
the children, makes them sensible of the advantages which
they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by
degrees for it, by rubbing off those rough corners and un-
toward affections which prevent their coalition.

For it must be confessed, that however the circumstances
of human nature may render a union necessary, and however
those passions of lust and natural affection may seem to
render it unavoidable, yet there are other particulars in our
natural temper, and in our outward circumstances, which are
very incommodious, and are even contrary to the requisite
conjunction. Among the former we may justly esteem our
selfishness to be the most considerable. I am sensible that,
generally speaking, the representations of this quahty have
been carried much too far; and that the descriptions which
certain philosophers delight so much to form of mankind in
this particular, are as wide of nature as any accounts of
monsters which we meet with in fables and romances. So
far from thinking that men have no affection for an)i;hing
beyond themselves, I am of opinion that, though it be rare
to meet with one who loves any single person better than

Of Morals 193

himself, yet it is as rare to meet with one in whom all the
kind aflFections, taken together, do not overbalance all the
selfish. Consult common experience; do you not see,
that though the whole expense of the family be generally
under the direction of the master of it, yet there are few that
do not bestow the largest part of their fortunes on the
pleasures of their wives and the education of their children,
reserving the smallest portion for their own proper use and
entertainment? This is what we may observe concerning
such as have those endearing ties; and may presume, that
the case would be the same with others, were they placed in
a like situation.

But though this generosity must be acknowledged to the
honour of human nature, we may at the same time remark,
that so noble an affection, instead of fitting men for large
societies, is almost as contrary to them as the most narrow
selfishness. For while each person loves himself better than
any other single person, and in his love to others bears the
greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, this
must necessarily produce an opposition of passions, and a
consequent opposition of actions, which cannot but be
dangerous to the new-established union.

It is, however, worth while to remark, that this contrariety
of passions would be attended with but small danger, did it
not concur with a peculiarity in our outward circumstances,
which affords it an opportunity of exerting itself. There are
three different species of goods which we are possessed of;
the internal satisfaction of our minds; the external ad-
vantages of our body; and the enjoyment of such possessions
as we have acquired by our industry and good fortune. We
are perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. The
second may be ravished from us, but can be of no advantage
to him who deprives us of them. The last only are both
exposed to the violence of others, and may be transferred
without suffering any loss or alteration; while at the same
time there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply
every one's desires and necessities. As the improvement,
therefore, of these goods is the chief advantage of society, so
the instability of their possession, along with their scarcity,
is the chief impediment.

In vain should we expect to find, in uncultivated nature, a
" N

194 Hume's Philosophical Works

remedy to this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial
principle of the human mind which might control those
partial affections, and make us overcome the temptations
arising from our circumstances. The idea of justice can
never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle,
capable of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards
each other. That virtue, as it is now understood, would
never have been dreamed of among rude and savage men.
For the notion of injury or injustice implies an immorality
or vice committed against some other person: And as every
immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of
the passions, and as this defect must be judged of, in a great
measure, from the ordinary course of nature in the constitu-
tion of the mind, it will be easy to know whether we be guilty
of any immorality with regard to others, by considering the
natural and usual force of those several affections which are
directed towards them. Now, it appears that, in the original
frame of our mind, our strongest attention is confined to
ourselves ; our next is extended to our relations and acquaint-
ance ; and it is only the weakest which reaches to* strangers
and indifferent persons. This partiality, then, and unequal
affection, must not only have an influence on our behaviour
and conduct in society, but even on our ideas of vice and
virtue ; so as to make us regard any remarkable transgression
of such a degree of partiality, either by too great an enlarge-
ment or contraction of the affections, as vicious and immoral. ,
This we may observe in our common judgments concerning
actions, where we blame a person who either centres all his
affections in his family, or is so regardless of them as, in any
opposition of interest, to give the preference to a stranger or
mere chance acquaintance. From all which it follows, that
our natural uncultivated ideas of morality, instead of pro-
viding a remedy for the partiality of our affections, do rather
conform themselves to that partiality, and give it an addi-
tional force and influence. j
The remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from j
artifice; or, more properly speaking, nature provides a
remedy, in the judgment and understanding, for what is
irregular and incommodious in the affections. For when
men, from their early education in society, have become
sensible of the infinite advantages that result from it, and

Of Morals 195

have besides acquired a new affection to company and con-
versation, and when they have observed that the principal
disturbance in society arises from those goods^ which we call
external, and from their looseness and easy transition from
one person to another, they must seek for a remedy, by
putting these goods, as far as possible, on the same footing
with the fixed and constant advantages of the mind and body.
This can be done after no other manner, than by a conven-
tion entered into by all the members of the society to bestow
stability on the possession of those external goods, and leave
every one in the peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire
by his fortune and industry. By this means every one
knows what he may safely possess; and the passions are
restrained in their partial and contradictory motions. Nor
is such a restraint contrary to these passions; for, if so, it
could never be entered into nor maintained; but it is only
contrary to their heedless and impetuous movement. In-
stead of departing from our own interest, or from that of our
nearest friends, by abstaining from the possessions of others,
we cannot better consult both these interests than by such
a convention; because it is by that means we maintain
society, which is so necessary to their well-being and sub-
sistence, as well as to our own.

This convention is not of the nature of a promise ; for even
promises themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from
human conventions. It is only a general sense of common
interest; which sense all the members of the society express
to one another, and which induces them to regulate their
conduct by certain rules. I observe, that it will be for my
interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, pro-
vided he will act in the same manner with regard to me. He
is sensible of a like interest in the regulation of his conduct.
When this common sense of interest is mutually expressed,
and is known to both, it produces a suitable resolution and
behaviour. And this may properly enough be called a con-
vention or agreement betwixt us, though without the inter-
position of a promise; since the actions of each of us have a
reference to those of the other, and are performed upon the
supposition that something is to be performed on the other
part. Two men who pull the oars of a boat, do it by an
agreement or convention, though they have never given

196 Hume's Philosophical Works

promises to each other. Nor is the rule concerning the
stabihty of possessions the less derived from human conven-
tions, that it arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow
progression, and by our repeated experience of the incon-
veniences of transgressing it. On the contrary, this experi-
ence assures us still more, that the sense of interest has
become common to all our fellows, and gives us a confidence
of the future regularity of their conduct; and it is only on the
expectation of this that our moderation and abstinence are
founded. In like manner are languages gradually established
by human conventions, without any promise. In like manner
do gold and silver become the common measures of exchange,
and are esteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred
times their value.

After this convention, concerning abstinence from the
possessions of others, is entered into, and every one has
acquired a stability in his possessions, there immediately
arise the ideas of justice and injustice; as also those of
property, right, and obligation. The latter are altogether unin-
telligible, without first understanding the former. Our pro-
perty is nothing but those goods, whose constant possession
is established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws of
justice. Those, therefore, who make use of the words property,
or right, or obligation, before they have explained the origin
of justice, or even make use of them in that explication, are
guilty of a very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any
solid foundation. A man's property is some object related to
him. This relation is not natural, but moral, and founded
on justice. It is very preposterous, therefore, to imagine
that we can have any idea of property, without fully com-
prehending the nature of justice, and showing its origin in the
artifice and contrivance of men. The origin of justice explains
that of property. The same artifice gives rise to both. As
our first and most natural sentiment of morals is founded on
the nature of our passions, and gives the perference to our-
selves and friends above strangers, it is impossible there can
be naturally any such thing as a fixed right or property,
while the opposite passions of men impel them in contrary
directions, and are not restrained by any convention or
agreement.

No one can doubt that the convention for the distinction

Of Morals 197

of property, and for the stability of possession, is of all cir-
cumstances the most necessary to the establishment of
human society, and that, after the agreement for the fixing
and observing of this rule, there remains little or nothing to
be done towards settling a perfect harmony and concord.
All the other passions, beside this of interest, are either easily
restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence when
indulged. Vanity is rather to be esteemed a social passion,
and a bond of union among men. Pity and love are to be
considered in the same light. And as to envy and revenge,
though pernicious, they operate only by intervals, and are
directed against particular persons, whom we consider as our
superiors or enemies. This avidity alone, of acquiring goods
and possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends, is
insatiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of
society. There scarce is any one who is not actuated by it;
and there is no one who has not reason to fear from it, when
it acts without any restraint, and gives way to its first and
most natural movements. So that, upon the whole, we are
to esteem the difficulties in the establishment of society to
be greater or less, according to those we encounter in regu-
lating and restraining this passion.

It is certain, that no affection of the human mind has both
a sufficient force and a proper direction to counterbalance
the love of gain, and render men fit members of society, by
making them abstain from the possessions of others. Bene-
volence to strangers is too weak for this purpose: and as to
the other passions, they rather inflame this avidity, when we
observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more ability
we have of gratifying all our appetites. There is no passion,
therefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but
the very affection itself, by an alteration of its direction,
i Now, this alteration must necessarily take place upon the
least reflection ; since it is evident that the passion is much
better satisfied by its restraint than by its liberty, and that,
I in preserving society, we m.ake much greater advances in the
acquiring possessions, than in the solitary and forlorn con-
dition which must follow upon violence and an universal
licence. The question, therefore, concerning the wickedness
or goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into that
other question concerning the origin of society; nor is there

198 Hume's Philosophical Works

anything to be considered but the degrees of men's sagacity
or folly. For whether the passion of self-interest be esteemed
vicious or virtuous, it is all a case, since itself alone restrains
it ; so that if it be virtuous, men become social by their virtue ;
if vicious, their vice has the same effect.

Now, as it is by establishing the rule for the stability of
possession that this passion restrains itself, if that rule be
very abstruse and of difficult invention, society must be
esteemed in a manner accidental, and the effect of many ages.
But if it be found that nothing can be more simple and obvious
than that rule ; that every parent, in order to preserve peace
among his children, must establish it; and that these first
rudiments of justice must every day be improved, as the
society enlarges: if all this appear evident, as it certainly
must, we may conclude that it is utterly impossible for men
to remain any considerable time in that savage condition
which precedes society, but that his very first state and
situation may justly be esteemed sodial. This, however,
hinders not but that philosophers may, if they please, extend
their reasoning to the supposed state of nature ; provided
they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, which never
had, and never could have, any reality. Human nature
being composed of two principal parts, which are requisite in
all its actions, the affections and understanding, it is certain
that the blind motions of the former, without the direction of
the latter, incapacitate men for society ; and it may be allowed
us to consider separately the effects that result from the
separate operations of these two component parts of the
mind. The same liberty may be permitted to moral, which
is allowed to natural philosophers ; and it is very usual with
the latter to consider any motion as compounded and con-
sisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the
same time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded
and inseparable.

This state oj nature, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere
fiction, not unlike that of the golden age which poets have
invented; only with this difference, that the former is I
described as full of war, violence, and injustice ; whereas the
latter is painted out to us as the most charming and most
peaceable condition that can possibly be imagined. The
seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate, if we

Of Morals 199

may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men
to provide themselves with clothes and houses as a security
against the violence of heat and cold. The rivers flowed with
wine and milk; the oaks yielded honey; and nature spon-
taneously produced her greatest delicacies. Nor were these
the chief advantages of that happy age. The storms and
tempests were not alone removed from nature; but those
more furious tempests were unknown to human breasts,
which now cause such uproar, and engender such confusion.
Avarice, ambition, cmelty, selfishness, were never heard of:
cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only
movements with which the human mind was yet acquainted.
Even the distinction of mine and thine was banished from
that happy race of mortals, and carried with them the very
notions of property, and obligation, justice and injustice.

This, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but
yet deser\'es our attention, because nothing can more evidently
show the origin of those virtues, which are the subjects of
our present inquiry. I have already observed, that justice
takes its rise from human conventions; and that these are
intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which proceed
from the concurrence of certain qualities of the human mind
with the situation of external objects. The qualities of the
mind are selfishness and limited generosity : and the situation
of external objects is their easy change, joined to their scarcity
in comparison of the wants and desires of men. But however
philosophers may have been bewildered in those speculations,
poets have been guided more infallibly, by a certain taste or
common instinct, which, in most kinds of reasoning, goes
further than any of that art and philosophy with which we
have been yet acquainted. They easily perceived, if every
man had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied
abundantly all our wants and desires, that the jealousy of
interest, which justice supposes, could no longer have place;
nor would there be any occasion for those distinctions and
limits of property and possession, which at present are in use
among mankind. Increase to a sufficient degree the bene-
volence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render
justice useless, by supplying its place with much nobler
virtues, and more valuable blessings. The selfishness of men
is animated by the few possessions we have, in proportion to

200 Hume's Philosophical Works

our wants; and it is to restrain this selfishness, that men
have been obUged to separate themselves from the com-
munity, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and
those of others.

Nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn
this; but, beside the reason of the thing, may discover the
same truth by common experience and observation. It is
easy to remark, that a cordial affection renders all things
common among friends; and that married people, in parti-
cular, mutually lose their property, and are unacquainted
with the mine and thine, which are so necessary, and yet
cause such disturbance in human society. The same effect
arises from any alteration in the circumstances of mankind;
as when there is such a plenty of anything as satisfies all the
desires of men: in which case the distinction of property is
entirely lost, and everything remains in common. This we
may observe with regard to air and water, though the most
valuable of all external objects; and may easily conclude,
that if men were supplied with everything in the same abund-
ance, or if every one had the same affection and tender regard
for every one as for himself, justice and injustice would be
equally unknown among mankind.

Here then is a proposition, which, I think, may be regarded
as certain, that it is only from the selfishness and confined
generosity of man, along with the scanty provision nature has
made for his wants, that justice derives its origin. If we look
backward we shall find, that this proposition bestows an
additional force on some of those observations which we
have already made on this subject.

First, We may conclude from it, that a regard to public
interest, or a strong extensive benevolence, is not our first
and original motive for the observation of the rules of justice;
since it is allowed, that if men were endowed with such a
benevolence, these rules would never have been dreamed of.

Secondly, We may conclude from the same principle, that
the sense of justice is not founded on reason, or on the dis-
covery of certain connections and relations of ideas, which
are eternal, immutable, and universally obligatory. For
since it is confessed, that such an alteration as that above
mentioned, in the temper and circumstances of mankind,
would entirely alter our duties and obligations, it is necessary

Of Morals 201

upon the common system, that the sense of virtue is derived
from reason, to show the change which this must produce in
the relations and ideas. But it is evident, that the only
cause why the extensive generosity of man, and the perfect
abundance of everything, would destroy the very idea of
justice, is, because they render it useless; and that, on the
other hand, his confined benevolence, and his necessitous
condition, give rise to that virtue, only by making it requisite
to the public interest, and to that of every individual. It
was therefore a concern for our own and the pubhc interest
which made us estabhsh the laws of justice; and nothing can
be more certain, than that it is not any relation of ideas which
gives us this concern, but our impressions and sentiments,
without which everything in nature is perfectly indifferent
to us, and can never in the least affect us. The sense of
justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on our
impressions.

Thirdly, We may further confirm the foregoing proposition,
that those impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice,
are not natural to the mind of man, but arise from artifice and
human conventions. For, since any considerable alteration
of temper and circumstances destroys equally justice and
injustice; and since such an alteration has an effect only by
changing our own and the public interest, it follows that the
first establishment of the rules of justice depends on these
different interests. But if men pursued the public interest
naturally, and with a hearty affection, they would have never
dreamed of restraining each other by these rules ; and if they
pursued their own interest, without any precaution, they
would run headlong into every kind of injustice and violence.
These rules, therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an
oblique and indirect manner; nor is the interest which gives
rise to them of a kind that could be pursued by the natural
and inartificial passions of men.

To make this more evident, consider, that, though the rules
of justice are established merely by interest, their connection
with interest is somewhat singular, and is different from
what may be observed on other occasions. A single act of
justice is frequently contrary to public interest ; and were it
to stand alone, without being followed by other acts, may, in
itselfj be very prejudicial to society. When a man of merit,

202 Hume's Philosophical Works

of a beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune to a miser,
or a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably; but
the public is a real sufferer. Nor is every single act of justice,
considered apart, more conducive to private interest than to
public : and it is easily conceived how a man may impoverish
himself by a single instance of integrity, and have reason to
wish, that, with regard to that single act, the laws of justice
were for a moment suspended in the universe. But, however
single acts of justice may be contrar\^, either to public or
private interest, it is certain that the whole plan or scheme
is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both to
the support of society, and the well-being of every individual.
It is impossible to separate the good from the ill. Property
must be stable, and must be fixed by general rules. Though
in one instance the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is
amply compensated by the steady prosecution of the rule,
and by the peace and order which it establishes in society.
And even every individual person must find himself a gainer
on balancing the account; since, without justice, society
must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that
savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than
the worst situation that can possibly be supposed in society.
When, therefore, men have had experience enough to observe,
that, whatever may be the consequence of any single act of
justice, performed by a single person, yet the whole system
of actions concurred in by the whole society, is infinitely
advantageous to the whole, and to every part, it is not long
before justice and property take place. Every member of
society is sensible of this interest: every one expresses this
sense to this fellows, along with the resolution he has taken
of squaring his actions by it, on condition that others will do
the same. No more is requisite to induce any one of them to
perform an act of justice, who has the first opportunity.
This becomes an example to others; and thus justice estab-
lishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement, that is, by
a sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where
every single act is performed in expectation that others are to
perform the like. Without such a convention, no one would
ever have dreamed that there was such a virtue as justice, or
have been induced to conform his actions to it. Taking any
single act, my justice may be pernicious in every respect;

Of Morals 203

and it is only upon the supposition that others are to imitate
my example, that I can be induced to embrace that virtue ;
since nothing but this combination can render justice advan-
tageous, or afford me any motives to conform myself to its
rules.

We come now to the second question we proposed, viz.
Why we annex the idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice.
This question will not detain us long after the principles
which we have already established. All we can say of it at
present will be despatched in a few words: and for further
satisfaction, the reader must wait till we come to the third
part of this book. The natural obligation to justice, viz.
interest, has been fully explained ; but as to the moral obliga-
tion, or the sentiment of right and wrong, it will first be
requisite to examine the natural virtues, before we can give
a full and satisfactory account of it.

After men have found by experience, that their selfishness
and confined generosity, acting at their liberty, totally
incapacitate them for society; and at the same time have
observed that society is necessary to the satisfaction of those
very passions, they are naturally induced to lay themselves
under the restraint of such rules, as may render their com-
merce more safe and commodious. To the imposition, then,
and observance of these rules, both in general, and in every
particular instance, they are at first induced only by a regard
to interest; and this motive, on the first formation of society,
is sufficiently strong and forcible. But when society has
become numerous, and has increased to a tribe or nation, this
interest is more remote; nor do men so readily perceive that
disorder and confusion follow upon every breach of these
rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But
though, in our own actions, we may frequently lose sight of
that interest which we have in maintaining order, and may
follow a lesser and more present interest, we never fail to
observe the prejudice we receive, either mediately or imme-
diately, from the injustice of others; as not being in that case
either blinded by passion, or biassed by any contrary tempta-
tion. Nay, when the injustice is so distant from us as no
way to affect our interest, it still displeases us; because we
consider it as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to
every one that approaches the person guilty of it. We

204 Hume's Philosophical Works

partake of their uneasiness by sympathy ; and as everything
which gives uneasiness in human actions^ upon the general
survey, is called Vice, and whatever produces satisfaction,
in the same manner, is denominated Virtue, this is the reason
why the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice
and injustice. And though this sense, in the present case,
be derived only from contemplating the actions of others,
yet we fail not to extend it even to our own actions. The
general rule reaches beyond those instances from which it
arose; while, at the same time, we naturally sympathise with
others in the sentiments they entertain of us.

Though this progress of the sentiments be natural, and
even necessary, it is certain that it is here forwarded by the
artifice of politicians, who, in order to govern men more easily,
and preserve peace in human society, have endeavoured to
produce an esteem for justice, and an abhorrence of injustice.
This, no doubt, must have its effect; but nothing can be more
evident than that the matter has been carried too far by
certain writers on morals, who seem to have employed their
utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from among
mankind. Any artifice of politicians may assist nature in
the producing of those sentiments, which she suggests to us,
and may even, on some occasions, produce alone an approba-
tion or esteem for any particular action ; but it is impossible
it should be the sole cause of the distinction we make betwixt
vice and virtue. For if nature did not aid us in this parti-
cular, it would be in vain for politicians to talk of honourable
or dishonourable, praiseworthy or blamable. These words
would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no more have
any idea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue per-
fectly unknown to us. The utmost politicians can perform, is
to extend the natural sentiments beyond their original bounds;
but still nature must furnish the materials, and give us some
notion of moral distinctions.

As public praise and blame increase our esteem for justice,
so private education and instruction contribute to the same
effect. For as parents easily observe, that a man is the more
useful, both to himself and others, the greater degree of
probity and honour he is endowed with, and that those prin-
ciples have greater force when custom and education assist
interest and reflection : for these reasons they are induced to

Of Morals 205

inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the
principles of probity, and teach them to regard the observance
of those rules by which society is maintained, as worthy and
honourable, and their violation as base and infamous. By
this means the sentiments of honour may take root in their
tender minds, and acquire such firmness and solidity, that
they may fall little short of those principles which are the
most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated
in our internal constitution.

What further contributes to increase their solidity, is the
interest of our reputation, after the opinion, that a merit or
demerit attends justice or injustice, is once firmly established
among mankind. There is nothing which touches us more
nearly than our reputation, and nothing on which our reputa-
tion more depends than our conduct with relation to the
property of others. For this reason, every one who has any
regard to his character, or who intends to live on good terms
with mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never,
by any temptation, to be induced to violate those principles
which are essential to a man of probity and honour.

I shall make only one observation before I leave this sub-
ject, viz. that, though I assert that, in the state of nature, or
that imaginary state which preceded society, there be neither
justice nor injustice, yet I assert not that it was allowable, in
such a state, to violate the property of others. I only main-
tain, that there was no such thing as property; and conse-
quently could be no such thing as justice or injustice. I shall
have occasion to make a similar reflection with regard to
pro7nises, when I come to treat of them; and I hope this
reflection, when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium
from the foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and in-
justice.

2o6 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION III

OF THE RULES WHICH DETERMINE PROPERTY

Though the establishment of the rule, concerning the
stability of possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely
necessary to human society, it can never serve to any purpose,
while it remains in such general terms. Some method must
be shown, by which we may distinguish what particular goods
are to be assigned to each particular person, while the rest of
mankind are excluded from their possession and enjoyment.
Our next business, then, must be to discover the reasons which
modify this general rule, and fit it to the common use and
practice of the world.

It is obvious that those reasons are not derived from any
utility or advantage, which either the particular person or
the public may reap from his enjoyment of any particular
goods, beyond what would result from the possession of them
by any other person. It were better, no doubt, that every-
one were possessed of what is most suitable to him, and proper
for his use: But besides, that this relation of fitness may be
common to several at once, it is liable to so many controversies,
and men are so partial and passionate in judging of these
controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule would be
absolutely incompatible with the peace of human society.
The convention concerning the stability of possession is
entered into, in order to cut off all occasions of discord and
contention; and this end would never be attained were we
allowed to apply this rule differently in every particular case,
according to every particular utility which might be dis-
covered in such an application. Justice, in her decisions,
never regards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular
persons, but conducts herself by more extensive views.
Whether a man be generous, or a miser, he is equally well
received by her, and obtains, with the same facility, a
decision in his favour, even for what is entirely useless to
him.

It follows, therefore, that the general rule, that possession

Of Morals 207

must be stable, is not applied by particular judgments^ but by
other general rules, which must extend to the whole society,
and be inflexible either by spite or favour. To illustrate this,
I propose the following instance. I first consider men in
their savage and solitary condition; and suppose that, being
sensible of the misery of that state, and foreseeing the advan-
tages that would result from society, they seek each other's
company, and make an offer of mutual protection and assist-
ance. I also suppose that they are endowed with such
sagacity as immediately to perceive that the chief im-
pediment to this project of society and partnership lies in the
avidity and selfishness of their natural temper; to remedy
which, they enter into a convention for the stability of pos-
session, and for mutual restraint and forbearance. I am
sensible that this method of proceeding is not altogether
natural; but, besides that, I here only suppose those reflec-
tions to be formed at once, which, in fact, arise insensibly and
by degrees; besides this, I say, it is very possible that several
persons, being by different accidents separated from the
societies to which they formerly belonged, may be obliged
to form a new society among themselves; in which case they
are entirely in the situation above mentioned.

It is evident, then, that their first difficulty in this situa-
tion, after the general convention for the establishment of
society, and for the constancy of possession, is, how to
separate their possessions, and assign to each his particular
portion, which he must for the future unalterably enjoy.
This difficulty will not detain them long; but it must imme-
diately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, that
every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of,
and that property or constant possession be conjoined to the
immediate possession. Such is the effect of custom, that it
not only reconciles us to anything we have long enjoyed, but
even gives us an affection for it, and makes us prefer it to
other objects, which may be more valuable, but are less known
to us. What has long lain under our eye, and has often been
employed to our advantage, that we are always the most un-
willing to part with; but can easily live without possessions
which we never have enjoyed, and are not accustomed to.
It is evident, therefore, that men would easily acquiesce in this
expedient, that every one continue to enjoy what he is at

2o8 Hume's Philosophical Works

present possessed of : and this is the reason why they would
so naturally agree in preferring it.^

> Xo questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when a number
of causes present themselves for the same phenomenon, to determine
which is the principal and predominant. There seldom is any very
precise argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented to be
guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and a com-
parison of similar instances. Thus, in the present case, there are, no
doubt, motives of public interest for most of the rules which determine
property; but still I suspect that these rules are principally fixed by
the imagination, or the more frivolous properties of oiur thought and
conception. I shall continue to explain these causes, leaving it to
the reader's choice whether he will prefer those derived from public
utility, OP those derived from the imagination. We shall begin with
the right of the present possessor.

It is a quality which I have already observed ^ in human nature, that
when two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is
apt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to complete the
imion; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run into
errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if we
find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions are
incapable of place or local position; and yet those very impressions
we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight
and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and are
already united in the imagination. Since, therefore, we can feign a
new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to complete any union,
it wOl easily be imagined, that if there be any relations which depend
on the mind, it will readily conjoin them to any preceding relation,
and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the
fancy. Thus, for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies,
to place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at
least in correspondent points of view; because we feel a satisfaction
in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or
the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. And this is
easily accounted for from the known properties of human nature.
When the mind is determined to join certain objects, but undetermined
in its choice of the particular objects, it naturally turns its eye to such
as are related together. They are already united in the mind: they
present themselves at the same time to the conception; and instead of
requiring any new reason for their conjunction, it would require a very
powerful reason to make us overlook this natural affinity. This we
shall have occasion to explain more fully afterwards, when we come to
treat of beauty. In the meantime, we may content ourselves with
observing, that the same love of order and uniformity which arranges
the books in a library, and the chairs in a parlour, contributes to the
formation of society, and to the well-being of mankind, by modifying
the general rule concerning the stability of possession. And as property
forms a relation betwixt a person and an object, it is natural to found
it on some preceding relation ; and, as propertj' is nothing but a con-
stant possession, secured by the laws of society, it is natural to add it
to the present possession, which is a relation that resembles it. For
this also has its influence. If it be natural to conjoin all sorts of rela-
tions, it is more so to conjoin such relations as are resembling, and are
related together.

1 Book I. Part IV. Sect. 5.

Of Morals 209

But we may observe^ that, though the rule of the assign-
ment of property to the present possessor be natural, and by
that means useful, yet its utility extends not beyond the first
formation of society; nor would anything be more pernicious
than the constant observance of it; by which restitution
would be excluded, and every injustice would be authorised
and rewarded. We must, therefore, seek for some other
circumstance, that may give rise to property after society is
once established; and of this kind I find four most consider-
able, viz. Occupation, Prescription, Accession, and Succession.
We shall briefly examine each of these, beginning with
occupation.

The possession of all external goods is changeable and
uncertain ; which is one of the most considerable impediments
to the establishment of society, and is the reason why, by
universal agreement, express or tacit, men restrain themselves
by what we now call the rales of justice and equity. The
misery of the condition which precedes this restraint is the
cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as possible ;
and this affords us an easy reason why we annex the idea of
property to the first possession, or to occupation. Men are
unwilling to leave property in suspense, even for the shortest
time, or open the least door to violence and disorder. To
which we may add, that the first possession always engages
the attention most ; and did we neglect it, there would be no
colour of reason for assigning property to any succeeding
possession.^

There remains nothing but to determine exactly what is
meant by possession; and this is not so easy as may at first
sight be imagined. We are said to be in possession of any-
thing, not only when we immediately touch it, but also when
we are so situated with respect to it, as to have it in our power

1 Some philosophers account for the right of occupation, by saying
that every one has a property in his own labour; and when he joins
that labour to anything, it gives him the property of the whole: but,
I. There are several kinds of occupation where we cannot be said to
join our labour to the object we acquire: as when we possess a meadow
by grazing our cattle upon it. 2. This accounts for the matter by

tVn.QdM's, oi accession ; which is taking a needless circuit. 3. We cannot

: be said to join our labour to anything but in a figurative sense.

■ Properly speaking, we only make an alteration on it by our labour.
This forms a relation betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the

i property, according to the preceding principles.

11 O

2IO Hume's Philosophical Works

to use it; and may move, alter, or destroy it, according to
our present pleasure or advantage. This relation, then, is a
species of cause and effect ; and as property is nothing but a
stable possession, derived from the rules of justice, or the
conventions of men, it is to be considered as the same species
of relation. But here we may observe, that, as the power of
usmg any object becomes more or less certain, according as
the interruptions we may meet with are more or less probable ;
and as this probability may increase by insensible degrees, it is
in many cases impossible to determine when possession begins
or ends; nor is there any certain standard by which we can
decide such controversies. A wild boar that falls into our
snares, is deemed to be in our possession if it be impossible
for him to escape. But what do we mean by impossible?
How do we separate this impossibility from an improbability ?
And how distinguish that exactly from a probability ? Mark
the precise limits of the one and the other, and show the
standard, by which we may decide all disputes that may
arise, and, as we find by experience, frequently do arise upon
this subject.^

* If we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and public
interest, we never shall find satisfaction; and if we look for it in the
imagination, it is evident that the qualities which operate upon that
faculty run so insensibly and gradually into each other, that it is im-
possible to give them any precise bounds or termination. The difficul-
ties on this head must increase, when we consider that our judgment
alters very sensibly according to the subject, and that the same power
and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which is not
esteemed such in another. A person who has hunted a hare to the
last degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for another
to rush in before him, and seize his prey. But the same person, ad-
vancing to pluck an apple that hangs within his reach, has no reason
to complain if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession.
What is the reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being
natural to the hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a
strong relation with the hunter, which is wanting in the other?

Here, then, it appears, that a certain and infallible power of enjoy-
ment, without touch or some other sensible relation, often produces
not property: and I further observe, that a sensible relation, without
any present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to any object.
The sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and is only re-
garded as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure; in which
case we find that the view alone conveys a property; according to
that maxim, that even a whole continent belongs to the nation which first
discovered it. It is however remarkable, that both in the case of dis-
covery and that of possession, the first discoverer and possessor must
join to the relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor, other- {
wise the relation will not have its effect ; and that because the conneo- ;

Of Morals 2 1 i

But such disputes may not only arise concerning the real
existence of property and possession, but also concerning
their extent; and these disputes are often susceptible of no
decision, or can be decided by no other faculty than the
imagination. A person who lands on the shore of a small
island that is desert and uncultivated, is deemed its possessor
from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the
whole; because the object is there bounded and circum-
scribed in the fancy, and at the same time is proportioned to
the new possessor. The same person landing on a desert
island as large as Great Britain, extends his property no
further than his immediate possession; though a numerous

tion in our fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so great
but that it requires to be helped by such an intention. •

From all these circumstances, it is easy to see how perplexed many
questions may become concerning the acquisition of property by occu-
pation; and the least effort of thought may present us with instances
which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. If we prefer
examples which are real to such as are feigned, we may consider the
following one, which is to be met with in almost every writer that has
treated of the laws of nature. Two Grecian colonies, leaving their
native country in search of new seats, were informed that a city near
them was deserted by its inhabitants. To know the truth of this
report, they despatched at once two messengers, one from each colony,
who finding, on their approach, that the information was true, begun
a race together, with an intention to take possession of the city, each
of them for his countrymen. One of these messengers, finding that
he was not an equal match for the other, launched his spear at the
gates of the city, and was so fortunate as to fix it there before the
arrival of his companion. This produced a dispute betwixt the two
colonies, which of them was the proprietor of the empty city; and
this dispute still subsists among philosophers. For my part, I find
the dispute impossible to be decided, and that because the whole
question hangs upon the fancy, which in this case is not possessed of
any precise or determinate standard upon which it can give sentence..
To make this evident, let us consider, that if these two persons had
been simply members of the colonies, and not messengers or deputies,
their actions would not have been of any consequence; since in that
case their relation to the colonies would have been but feeble and im-
perfect. Add to this, that nothing determined them to run to the
gates rather than the walls or any other part of the city, but that the
gates, being the most obvious and remarkable part, satisfy the fancy
best in taking them for the whole; as we find by the poets, who fre-
quently draw their images and metaphors from them. Besides, we
may consider that the touch or contact of the one messenger is not
properly possession, no more than the piercing the gates with the
spear, but only forms a relation; and there is a relation in the other
case equally obvious, though not perhaps of equal force. Which of
these relations, then, conveys a right and property, or whether any of
them be suf&cient for that effect, I leave to the decision of such as are
wiser than myself.

2 r 2 Hume's Philosophical Works

colony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the
instant of their debarkment.

But if it often happens that the title of first possession
becomes obscure through time, and that it is impossible to
determine many controversies which may arise concerning
it; in that case, long possession or prescriplioti naturally
takes place, and gives a person a sufficient property in any-
thing he enjoys. The nature of human society admits not
of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount to the
first origin of things, in order to determine their present
condition. Any considerable space of time sets objects at
such a distance that they seem in a manner to lose their
reality, and have as little influence on the mind as if they
never had been in being. A man's title that is clear and
certain at present, will seem obscure and doubtful fifty years
hence, even though the facts on which it is founded should be
proved with the greatest evidence and certainty. The same
facts have not the same influence after so long an interval of
time. And this may be received as a convincing argument
for our preceding doctrine with regard to property and justice.
Possession during a long tract of time conveys a title to any
object. But as it is certain that, however everything be
produced in time, there is nothing real that is produced by
time, it follows, that property being produced by time, is not
anything real in the objects, but is the offspring of the senti-
ments, on which alone time is found to have any influence.^

We acquire the property of objects by accession, whenj
they are connected in an intimate manner with objects that i
are already our property, and at the same time are inferior
to them. Thus, the fruits of our garden, the offspring of our
cattle, and the work of our slaves, are all of them esteemed
our property, even before possession. Where objects are
connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be put
on the same footing, and are commonly supposed to be
endowed with the same qualities. We readily pass from

1 Present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person and an
object; but is not sufficient to counterbalance the relation of first
possession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted; in which caseJG
the relation is increased on the side of the present possession by the
extent of time, and diminished on that of first possession by the dis-;|oi
tance. This change in the relation produces a consequent change in
the property.

Of Morals 2 1 3

one to the other, and make no difference in our judgments
concerning them, especially if the latter be inferior to the
former,^

* This source of property can never be explained but from the imagi-
nation; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. We
shall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them
by examples from common life and experience.

It has been observed above, that the mind has a natiural propensity
to join relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a kind of fitness
and uniformity in such an union. From this propensity are derived
these laws of nature, that upon the first formation of society, property
always follows the present possession ; and afterwards, that it arises
from first or from long possession. Now, we may easily observe, that
relation is not confined merely to one degree; but that from an object
that is related to us, we acquire a relation to every other object which
is related to it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain bv too long a
progress. However the relation may weaken by each remo've, it is not
immediately destroyed; but frequently connects two objects by means
of an immediate one, which is related to both. And this principle is
of such force as to give rise to the right of accession, and causes us to
acquire the property, not only of such objects as we are immediately
possessed of, but also of such as are closely connected with them.

Suppose a German, a Frenchman, and a Spaniard, to come into a
room where there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine,
Rhenish, Burgundy, and Port; and suppose they should fall a quar-
relling about the division of them, a person who was chosen for umpire
would naturally, to show his impartiality, give every one the product
of his own country ; and this from a principle which, in some measure,
is the source of those laws of nature that ascribe property to occupa-
tion, prescription, and accession.

In all these cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first a
natural union betwixt the idea of the person and that of the object,
and afterwards a new and moral union produced bv that right or pro-
perty which we ascribe to the person. But here there occurs a difficulty
which merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity of
putting to trial that singular method of reasoning which has been
employed on the present subject. I have already observed, that the
imagination passes with greater facility from little to great, than from
great to little, and that the transition of ideas is always easier and-
smoother in the former case than in the latter. Now, as the right of
accession arises from the easy transition of ideas by which related
objects are connected together, it should naturally be imagined that
the right of accession must increase in strength, in proportion as the
transition of ideas is performed with greater facility. It may therefore
be thought, that when we have acquired the property of any small
object, we shall readily consider any great object related to it as an
accession, and as belonging to the proprietor of the small one; since
the transition is in that case very easy from the small object to the
great one, and should connect them together in the closest manner.
But in fact the case is always found to be otherwise. The empire of
Great Britain seems to draw along with it the dominion of the Orkneys,
the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and the Isle of Wight; but the authority
over those lesser islands does not naturally imply any title to Great
Britain. In short, a small object naturally follows a great one as its
accession; but a great one is never supposed to belong to the proprietor

2 14 Hume's Philosophical Works

The right of succession is a very natural one^, from the
presumed consent of the parent or near relation, and from the
general interest of mankind, which requires that men's pos-
sessions should pass to those who are dearest to them, in

of a small one related to it, merely on account of that property and
relation. Yet in this latter case the transition of ideas is smoother
from the proprietor to the small object which is his property, and from
the small object to the great one, than in the former case from the
proprietor to the great object, and from the great one to the small.
It may therefore be thought, that these phenomena are objections to
the foregoing hypothesis, that the ascribing of property to accession is
nothing but an effect of the relations of ideas, and of the smooth transition
of the ima'^ination.

It will be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and
unsteadiness ot the imagination, with the different views in which it is
continually placing its objects. When we attribute to a person a
property in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one
object, and from that to the other related to it. The objects being
here to be considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join
them together, and place them in the same light. Suppose, therefore,
a great and a small object to be related together, if a person be strongly
related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly related to both
the objects considered together, because he is related to the most con-
siderable part. On the contrary, if he be only related to the small
object, he will not be strongly related to bothi considered together,
since his relation lies only with the most trivial part, which is not apt
to strike us in any great degree when we consider the whole. And this
is the reason why small objects become accessions to great ones, and
not great to small.

It is the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is
incapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because
it is impossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct rela-
tion with it, as may be the foundation of property. Where this reason
ceases, property immediately takes place. Thus, the most strenuous
advocates for the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths and
baj-s naturally belong as an accession to the proprietors of the surround-
ing continent. These have properly no more bond or union with the
land than the Pacific ocean would have; but having an union in the
fancy, and being at the same time inferior, they are of course regarded
as an accession.

The property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the
natural turn of our thought, is attributed to the proprietors of their
banks, excepting such vast rivers as the Rhine or the Danube, which
seem too large to the imagination to follow as an accession the property
of the neighbouring fields. Yet even these rivers are considered as
the property of that nation through whose dominions they run; the
idea of a nation being a suitable t)ulk to correspond with them, and
bear them such a relation in the fancy.

The accessions which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow
the land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they call ,|
alluvion, that is, insensibly and imperceptibly; which are circum-
stances that mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction.
Where there is any considerable portion torn at once from one bank,
and joined to another, it becomes not his property whose land it falls

Of Morals 215

order to render them more industrious and frugal. Perhaps
these causes are seconded by the influence of relation, or the
association of ideas, by which we are naturally directed to
consider the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe to

on, till it unite with the land, and till the trees or plants have spread
their roots into both. Before that, the imagination does not suffi-
ciently join them.

There are other cases which somewhat resemble this of accession
but which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our
attention. Of this kind is the conjunction of the properties of different
persons, after such a manner as not to admit of separation. The
question is, to whom the united mass must belong.

Where this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of division,
but not of separation, the decision is natural and easy. The whole
mass must be supposed to be common betwi.xt the proprietors of the
several parts, and afterwards must be divided according to the propor-
tions of these parts. But here I cannot forbear taking notice of a
remarkable subtilty of the Roman law, in distinguishing betwi.xt con-
fusion and commixtion. Confusion is a union of two bodies, such as
different liqours, where the parts become entirely undistinguishable.
Commixtion is the blending of two bodies, such as two bushels of corn,
where the parts remain separate in an obvious and visible manner.
As in the latter case the imagination discovers not so entire a union as
in the former, but is able to trace and preserve a distinct idea of the
property of each; this is the reason why the civil law, though it estab-
lished an entire community in the case of confusion, and after that a
proportional division, yet in the case of commixtion, supposes each of
the proprietors to maintain a distinct right; however, necessity may
at last force them to submit to the same division.

Quod si frumentum Titii frumento tuo mistum fuerit : siquidem ex
voluntate vestra, commune est : quia singula corpora, id est, singula grana,
qiicB ciijiisque propria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro communicata sunt.
Quod si casu id mistum fuerit, vel Titius id miscuerit sine tua voluntate,
non videtur id commune esse ; quia singula corpora in sua substantia
durant. Sed nee magis istis casibus commune sit frumentum quam grex
intelligitur esse communis , si pecora Titii tuis pecoribus mista fuerint.
Scd si ab alterulro vestrum totum id frumentum retineatur, in rem quidem
actio pro modo frumenti cujusque competit. A rbitrio autem judicis, ut ipse
cestimet quale cujusque frumentum fuerit. Inst. Lib. II. Tit. i, § 28.

Where the properties of two persons are united after such a manner
as neither to admit of division nor separation, as when one builds a
house on another's ground, in that case the whole must belong to one
of the proprietors; and here I assert, that it naturally is conceived to
belong to the proprietor of the most considerable part. For, however
the compound object may have a relation to two different persons,
and carry our view at once to both of them, yet, as the most consider-
able part principally engages our attention, and by the strict union
draws the inferior along it ; for this reason, the whole bears a relation
to the proprietor of that part, and is regarded as his property. The
only difficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call the most considerable
part, and most attractive to the imagination.

This quality depends on several different circumstances which have

little connection with each other. One part of a compound object mav

' become more considerable than another, either because it is more

2i6 Hume's Philosophical Works

him a title to his father's possessions. Those goods must
become the property of somebody: but of whom is the ques-
tion. Here it is evident the person's children naturally
present themselves to the mind; and being already connected
to those possessions by means of their deceased parent, we
are apt to connect them still further by the relation of pro-
perty. Of this there are many parallel instances.^

constant and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is
more obvious and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or
because its existence is more separate and independent. It will be
easy to conceive, that, as these circumstances may be conjoined and
opposed in all the different ways, and according to all the different
degrees, which can be imagined, there will result many cases where
the reasons on both sides are so equally balanced, that it is impossible
for us to give any satisfactory decision. Here, then, is the proper
business of municipal laws, to fix what the principles of human nature
have left undetermined.

The superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: the ^v^iting to
the paper: the canvas to the picture. These decisions do not well
agree together, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles
from which they are derived.

But of all the questions of this kind, the most curious is that which
for so many ages divided the disciples of Procuhis and Sabinus. Sup-
pose a person should make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship
from his wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood should
demand his goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the
cup or ship. Sabinus maintained the affirmative, and asserted, that
the substance or matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that it is
incorruptible and immortal, and therefore superior to the form, which
is casual and dependent. On the other hand, Proculus observed, that
the form is the most obvious and remarkable part, and that from it
bodies are denominated of this or that particular species. To which
he might have added, that the matter or substance is in most bodies so
fluctuating and uncertain, that it is utterly impossible to trace it in all
its changes. For my part, I know not from what principles such a
controversy can be certainly determined. I shall therefore content
myself with observing, that the decision of Trebonian seems to me
pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs to the proprietor of the metal,
because it can be brought back to its first form: but that the ship
belongs to the author of its form, for a contrary reason. But, however
ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly depends upon the fancy,
which, by the possibility of such a reduction, finds a closer connection
and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of its metal, than betwixt
a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the substance is more
fixed and unalterable.

' In examining the different titles to authority in government, we
shall meet with many reasons to convince us that the right of succes-
sion depends, in a great measure, on the imagination. Meanwhile I
shall rest contenied with observing one example, which belongs to the
present subject. Suppose that a person die without children, and
that a dispute arises among his relations concerning his inheritance;
it is evident, that it his riches be derived partly from his father, partly
from his mother, the most natural way of determining such a dispute is.

Of Morals 217

SECTION IV

OF THE TRANSFERENCE OF PROPERTY BY CONSENT

However useful, or even necessary, the stability of posses-
sion may be to human society, it is attended with very con-
siderable inconveniences. The relation of fitness or suitable-
ness ought never to enter into consideration, in distributing
the properties of mankind ; but we must govern ourselves by
rules which are more general in their application, and more
free from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kind is present pos-
session upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards
occupation, prescription, accession, and succession. As these
depend very much on chance, they must frequently prove
contradictory both to men's wants and desires ; and persons
and possessions must often be very ill adjusted. This is a
grand inconvenience, which calls for a remedy. To apply one
directly, and allow every man to seize by violence what he
judges to be fit for him, would destroy society ; and therefore
the rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability
and this changeable and uncertain adjustment. But there
IS no medium better than that obvious one, that possession
and property should always be stable, except when the pro-
prietor consents to bestow them on some other person. This
mle can have no ill consequence in occasioning wars and dis-
sensions, since the proprietor's consent, who alone is concerned,
is taken along in the alienation; and it may serve to many
good purposes in adjusting property to persons. Different
parts of the earth produce different commodities; and not
only so, but different men both are by nature fitted for
different employments, and attain to greater perfection in

to divide his possessions, and assign eacti part to the family from
whence it is derived. Now, as the person is supposed to have been
once the full and entire proprietor of those goods, I ask, what is it
makes us find a certain equity and natural reason in this partition,
except it be the imagination? His affection to these families does not
depend upon his possessions; for which reason his consent can never
be presumed precisely for such a partition. And as to the public
interest, it seems not to be in the least concerned on the one side or
the other.

2i8 Hume's Philosophical Works

any one, when they confine themselves to it alone. All this
requires a mutual exchange and commerce ; for which reason
the translation of property by consent is founded on a law
of nature, as well as its stability without such a consent.

So far is determined by a plain utility and interest. But
perhaps it is from more trivial reasons, that delivery, or a
sensible transference of the object is commonly required by
civil laws, and also by the laws of nature, according to most
authors, as a requisite circumstance in the translation of pro-
perty. The property of an object, when taken for something
real, without anv reference to morality, or the sentiments of
the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even incon-
ceivable; nor can we form any distinct notion, either of its
stability or translation. This imperfection of our ideas is
less sensibly felt with regard to its stability, as it engages less
our attention, and is easily passed over by the mind, without
any scrupulous examination. But as the translation of pro-
perty from one person to another is a more remarkable event,
the defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that occasion
and obliges us to turn ourselves on every side in search of
some remedy. Now, as nothing more enlivens any idea
than a present impression, and a relation betwixt that im-
pression and the idea; it is natural for us to seek some false
light from this quarter. In order to aid the imagination in
conceiving the transference of property, we take the sensible
object, and actually transfer its possession to the person on
whom we would bestow the property. The supposed resem-
blance of the actions, and the presence of this sensible
delivery, deceive the mind, and make it fancy that it con-
ceives the mysterious transition of the property. And that
this explication of the matter is just, appears hence, that
men have invented a symbolical delivery, to satisfy the fancy
where the real one is impracticable. Thus the giving the
keys of a granary is understood to be the delivery of the corn
contained in it; the giving of stone and earth represents the
delivery of a manor. This is a kind of superstitious practice
in civil laws, and in the laws of nature, resembling the Roman
Catholic superstition in religion. As the Roman Catholics
represent the inconceivable mysteries of the Christian religion,
and render them more present to the mind, by a taper, or
habit, or grimace, which is supposed to resemble them; so

Of Morals 219

lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions for the
same reason, and have endeavoured by those means to
satisfy themselves concerning the transference of property
by consent.

SECTION V

OF THE OBLIGATION OF PROMISES

That the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance
of promises, is not natural, will sufficiently appear from these
two propositions, which I proceed to prove, viz. that a promise
would not be intelligible before human conventions had established
it ; and that even if it were intelligible, it would not be attended
with any moral obligation.

I say, -first, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor
antecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unac-
quainted with society, could never enter into any engagements
with another, even though they could perceive each other's
thoughts by intuition. If promises be natural and intelligible,
there must be some act of the mind attending these words,
/ -promise ; and on this act of the mind must the obligation
depend. Let us therefore run over all the faculties of the
soul, and see which of them is exerted in our promises.

The act of the mind, expressed by a promise, is not a resolu-
tion to perform anything; for that alone never imposes any
obligation. Nor is it a J^^zVe of such a performance ; for we
may bind ourselves without such a desire, or even with an
aversion, declared and avowed. Neither is it the willing of
that action which we promise to perform; for a promise
always regards some future time, and the will has an influence
only on present actions. It follows, therefore, that since
the act of the mind, which enters into a promise, and produces
its obligation, is neither the resolving, desiring, nor willing
any particular performance, it must necessarily be the willing
of that obligation which arises from the promise. Nor is this
only a conclusion of philosophy, but is entirely conformable
to our common ways of thinking and of expressing ourselves,
when we say that we are bound by our own consent, and that

220 Hume's Philosophical Works

the obligation arises from our mere will and pleasure. The
only question then is, whether there be not a manifest
absurdity in supposing this act of the mind, and such an
absurdity as no man could fall into, whose ideas are not con-
founded with prejudice and the fallacious use of language.

All morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any
action or quality of the mind pleases us after a certain manner,
we say it is virtuous ; and when the neglect or non-perform-
ance of it displeases us after a like manner, we say that we lie
under an obligation to perform it. A change of the obligation
supposes a change of the sentiment; and a creation of a new
obligation supposes some new sentiment to arise. But it is
certain we can naturally no more change our own sentiments
than the motions of the heavens; nor by a single act of our
will, that is, by a promise, render any action agreeable or
disagreeable, moral or immoral, which, without that act,
would have produced contrary impressions, or have been
endowed with different qualities. It would be absurd,
therefore, to will any new obligation, that is, any new senti-
ment of pain or pleasure; nor is it possible that men could
naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. A promise, there-
fore, is naturally something altogether unintelligible, nor is
there any act of the mind belonging to it.^

1 Were morality discoverable bj' reason, and not by sentiment, it
would be still more evident that promises could make no alteration
upon it. Morality is supposed to consist in relation. Every new im-
position of morality, therefore, must arise from some new relation of
objects; and consequently the will could not produce immediately any
change in the morals, but could have that effect only by producing a
change upon the objects. But as the moral obligation of a promise is
the pure effect of the will, without the least change in any part of the
universe, it follows that promises have no natural obligation.

Should it be said, that this act of the will, being in effect a new object,
produces new relations and new duties; I would answer, that this is a
pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share of
accuracy and exactness. To will a new obligation is to will a new rela-
tion of 'objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects were
formed by the volition itself, we should, in effect, will the volition,
which is plainly absurd and impossible. The will has here no object
to which it could tend, but must return upon itself in infinitum. The
new obligation depends upon new relations. The new relations depend
upon a new volition. The new volition has for object a new obUgation,
and consequently new relations, and consequently a new volition;
which volition, again, has in view a new obligation, relation, and voli-
tion, without any termination. It is impossible, therefore, we could
ever will a new obligation; and consequently it is impossible the will
could ever accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of
morality.

Of Morals 221

But, secondly, if there was any act of the mind belonging
to it, it could not naturally produce any obligation. This
appears evidently from the foregoing reasoning. A promise
creates a new obligation. A new obligation supposes new
sentiments to arise. The will never creates new sentiments.
There could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation
from a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the
absurdity of willing that obligation.

The same truth may be proved still more evidently by that
reasoning which proved justice in general to be an artificial
virtue. No action can be required of us as our duty, unless
there be implanted in human nature some actuating passion
or motive capable of producing the action. This motive
cannot be the sense of duty. A sense of duty supposes an
antecedent obligation; and where an action is not required
by any natural passion, it cannot be required by any natural
obligation; since it may be omitted without proving any
defect or imperfection in the mind and temper, and conse-
quently without any vice. Now, it is evident we have no
motive leading us to the performance of promises, distinct
from a sense of duty. If we thought that promises had no
moral obligation, we never should feel any inclination to
observe them. This is not the case with the natural virtues.
Though there was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our
humanity would lead us to it; and when we omit that duty,
the immorality of the omission arises from its being a proof
that we want the natural sentiments of humanity. A father
knows it to be his duty to take care of his children, but he has
also a natural inclination to it. And if no human creature
had that inclination, no one could lie under any such obliga-
tion. But as there is naturally no inclination to observe
promises distinct from a sense of their obligation, it follows
that fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no
force antecedent to human conventions.

If any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof
of these two propositions, viz. that there is a peculiar act of the
mind annexed to promises ; and that consequent to this act of
the mind, there arises an inclination to perform, distinct from a
sense of duty. I presume that it is impossible to prove either
of these two points; and therefore I venture to conclude,

222 Hume's Philosophical Works

that promises are human inventions, founded on the neces-
sities and interests of society.

In order to discover these necessities and interests, we must
consider the same quahties of human nature which we have
already found to give rise to the preceding laws of society.
Men being naturally selfish, or endowed only with a confined
generosity, they are not easily induced to perform any action
for the interest of strangers, except with a view to some
reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining
but by such a performance. Now, as it frequently happens
that these mutual performances cannot be finished at the
same instant, it is necessary that one party be contented to
remain in uncertainty, and depend upon the gratitude of the
other for a return of kindness. But so much corruption is
there among men, that, generally speaking, this becomes but
a slender security; and as the benefactor is here supposed to
bestow his favours with a view to self-interest, this both takes
oflf from the obligation, and sets an example of selfishness,
which is the true mother of ingratitude. Were we, therefore,
to follow the natural course of our passions and inclinations,
we should perform but few actions for the advantage of others
from disinterested views, because we are naturally very
limited in our kindness and affection ; and we should perform
as few of that kind out of regard to interest, because we
cannot depend upon their gratitude. Here, then, is the
mutual commerce of good offices in a manner lost among
mankind, and every one reduced to his own skill and industry
for his well-being and subsistence. The invention of the law
of nature, concerning the stability of possession, has already
rendered men tolerable to each other; that of the transference
of property and possession by consent has begun to render
them mutually advantageous; but still these laws of nature,
however strictly observed, are not sufficient to render them so
serviceable to each other as by nature they are fitted to
become. Though possession be stable, men may often reap
but small advantage from it, while they are possessed of a
greater quantity of any species of goods than they have
occasion for, and at the same time suffer by the want of others.
The transference of property, which is the proper remedy for
this inconvenience, cannot remedy it entirely; because it can
only take place with regard to such objects as are present and

Of Morals 223

individual, but not to such as are absent or general. One
cannot transfer the property of a particular house, twenty
leagues distant, because the consent cannot be attended with
delivery, which is a requisite circumstance. Neither can one
transfer the property of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads
of wine, by the mere expression and consent, because these
are only general terms, and have no distinct relation to any
particular heap of corn or barrels of wine. Besides, the
commerce of mankind is not confined to the barter of com-
modities, but may extend to services and actions, which we
may exchange to our mutual interest and advantage. Your
com is ripe to-day; mine will be so to-morrow. It is profit-
able for us both that I should labour with you to-day, and
that you should aid me to-morrow. I have no kindness for
you, and know you have as little for me. I will not, there-
fore, take any pains upon your account; and should I labour
with you upon my own account, in expectation of a return,
I know I should be disappointed, and that I should in vain
depend upon your gratitude. Here, then, I leave you to
labour alone: you treat me in the same manner. The
seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for want
of mutual confidence and security.

All this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles
and passions of human nature; and as these passions and
principles are unalterable, it may be thought that our con-
duct, which depends on them, must be so too, and that it
would be in vain, either for moralists or politicians, to tamper
with us, or attempt to change the usual course of our actions,
with a view to public interest. And, indeed, did the success
of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the
selfishness and ingratitude of men, they would never make
any progress, unless aided by Omnipotence, which is alone
able to new-mould the human mind, and change its character
in such fundamental articles. All they can pretend to is, to
give a new direction to those natural passions, and teach us
that we can better satisfy our appetites in an oblique and
artificial manner, than by their headlong and impetuous
motion. Hence I learn to do a service to another, without
bearing him any real kindness; because I foresee that he will
return my service, in expectation of another of the same kind,
and in order to maintain the same correspondence of good

224 Hume's Philosophical Works

offices with me or with others. And accordingly, after I
have served him, and he is in possession of the advantage
arising from my action, he is induced to perform his part, as
foreseeing the consequences of his refusal.

But though this self-interested commerce of men begins to
take place, and to predominate in society, it does not entirely
abolish the more generous and noble intercourse of friendship
and good offices. I may still do services to such persons as I
love, and am more particularly acquainted with, without
any prospect of advantage; and they may make me a return
in the same manner, without any view but that of recom-
pensing my past services. In order, therefore, to distinguish
those two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the
disinterested, there is a certain form of word invented for
the former, by which we bind ourselves to the perfoimance of
any action. This form of words constitutes what we call a
promise, which is the sanction of the interested commerce of
mankind. When a man says he promises anything, he in effect
expresses a resolution of performing it; and along with that,
by making use of this /or??? of words, subjects himself to the
penalty of never being trusted again in case of failure. A
resolution is the natural act of the mind, which promises
express; but were there no more than a resolution in the case,
promises would only declare our former motives, and would
not create any new motive or obligation. They are the con-
ventions of men, which create a new motive, when experience
has taught us that human affairs would be conducted much
more for mutual advantage, were there certain symbols or
signs instituted, by which we might give each other security
of our conduct in any particular incident. After these signs
are instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by
his interest to execute his engagements, and must never
expect to be trusted any more if he refuse to perform what he
promised.

Nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind
sensible of this interest in the institution and observance of
promises, to be esteemed superior to the capacity of human
nature, however savage and uncultivated. There needs but
a very little practice of the world to make us perceive all
these consequences and advantages. The shortest experience
of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each

Of Morals 225

individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows,
he immediately performs his part of any contract, as being
assured that they will not be wanting in theirs. All of them,
by concert, enter into a scheme of actions, calculated for
common benefit, and agree to be true to their word; nor is
there anything requisite to form this concert or convention,
but that every one have a sense of interest in the faithful ful-
filling of engagements, and express that sense to other
members of the society. This immediately causes that
interest to operate upon them; and interest is the_^r^/ obliga-
tion to the performance of promises.

Afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest,
and becomes a new obligation upon mankind. This senti-
ment of morality, in the performance of promises, arises from
the same principles as that in the abstinence from the property
of others. Public interest, education, and the artifices of
politicians, have the same effect in both cases. The diffi-
culties that occur to us in supposing a moral obligation to
attend promises, we either surmount or elude. For instance,
the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to
be obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the
making use of a certain form of words should be able to cause
any material difference. Here, therefore, we feign a new
act of the mind, which we call the willing an obligation; and
on this we suppose the morality to depend. But we have
proved already that there is no such act of the mind, and
consequently, that promises impose no natural obligation.

To confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections
concerning that will, which is supposed to enter into a promise,
and to cause its obligation. It is evident that the will alone
is never supposed to cause the obligation, but must be ex-
pressed by words or signs, in order to impose a tie upon any
man. The expression being once brought in as subservient to
the will, soon becomes the principal part of the promise; nor
will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly give
a different direction to his intention, and withhold himself
both from a resolution, and from willing an obligation. But
though the expression makes on most occasions the whole of
the promise, yet it does not always so; and one who should
make use of any expression of which he knows not the mean-
ing, and which he uses without any intention of binding
II P

2 26 Hume's Philosophical Works

himself, would not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he
knows its meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such
signs as show evidently he has no serious intention of binding
himself, he would not lie under any obligation of performance ;
but it is necessary that the words be a perfect expression of
the will, without any contrary signs. Nay, even this we
must not carry so far as to imagine, that one, whom, by our
quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from certain signs,
to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound by his
expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it; but must
limit this conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a
different kind from those of deceit. All these contradictions
are easily accounted for, if the obligation of promises be
merely a human invention for the convenience of society;
but will never be explained, if it be something real and
natural, arising from any action of the mind or body.

I shall further observe, that, since every new promise
imposes a new obligation of morality on the person who
promises, and since this new obligation arises from his will;
it is one of the most mysterious and incomprehensible opera-
tions that can possibly be imagined, and may even be com-
pared to transubslantiation or holy orders^ where a certain
form of words, along with a certain intention, changes entirely
the nature of an external object, and even of a human creature.
But though these mysteries be so far alike, it is very remark-
able that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this
difference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference
of their origins. As the obligation of promises is an invention
for the interest of society, it is warped into as many different
forms as that interest requires, and even runs into direct con-
tradictions, rather than lose sight of its object. But as those
other monstrous doctrines are mere priestly inventions, and
have no public interest in view, they are less disturbed in
their progress by new obstacles; and it must be owned, that,
after the first absurdity, they follow more directly the current
of reason and good sense. Theologians clearly perceived
that the external form of words, being mere sound, require
an intention to make them have any efhcacy; and that this
intention being once considered as a requisite circumstance,

^ 1 mean so far as holy orders are supposed to produce the indeltl ..
character. In other respects they are only a legal qualification.

Of Morals 227

its absence must equally prevent the effect, whether avowed
or concealed, whether sincere or deceitful. Accordingly,
they have commonly determined, that the intention of the
priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly with-
draws his intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still
destroys the baptism, or communion, or holy orders. The
terrible consequences of this doctrine were not able to hinder
its taking place; as the inconvenience of a similar doctrine,
with regard to promises, have prevented that doctrine from
establishing itself. Men are always more concerned about
the present life than the future; and are apt to think the
smallest evil which regards the former more important than
the greatest which regards the latter.

We may draw the same conclusion concerning the origin
of promises, from the force which is supposed to invalidate all
contracts, and to free us from their obligation. Such a prin-
ciple is a proof that promises have no natural obligation, and
are mere artificial contrivances for the convenience and advan-
tage of society. If we consider aright of the matter, force
is not essentially different from any other motive of hope or
fear, which may induce us to engage our word, and lay our-
selves under any obligation. A man, dangerously wounded,
who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to cure him,
would certainly be bound to performance ; though the case be
not so much difierent from that of one who promises a sum to
a robber, as to produce so great a difference in our sentiments
of morality, if these sentiments were not built entirely on
public interest and convenience.

22 8 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION VI

SOME FURTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND

INJUSTICE

We have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature,
that of the stability of possession, of its transference by consent,
and of the performance of promises. It is on the strict observ-
ance of those three laws that the peace and security of human
society entirely depend ; nor is there any possibility of estab-
lishing a good correspondence among men, where these are
neglected. Society is absolutely necessary for the well-
being of men ; and these are as necessary to the support of
society. Whatever restraint they may impose on the passions
of men, they are the real offspring of those passions, and are
only a more artful and more refined way of satisfying them.
Nothing is more vigilant and inventive than our passions;
and nothing is more obvious than the convention for the
observance of these rules. Nature has, therefore, trusted
this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has not placed
in the mind any peculiar original principles, to determine
us to a set of actions, into which the other principles of our
frame and constitution were sufficient to lead us. And to
convince us the more fully of this truth, we may here stop a
moment, and, from a review of the preceding reasonings, may
draw some new arguments, to prove that those laws, however
necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human invention;
and consequently, that justice is an artificial, and not a
natural virtue.

I. The first argument I shall make use of is derived from
the vulgar definition of justice. Justice is commonly defined
to be a constant and perpetual will of giving every one his due.
In this definition it is supposed that there are such things as
right and property, independent of justice, and antecedent to
it; and that they would have subsisted, though men had
never dreamt of practising such a virtue. I have already
observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this opinion,
and shall here continue to open up, a little more distinctly,
my sentiments on that subject.

Of Morals 229

I shall begin with obsenang that this quality, which we
call property, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the
Peripatetic philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate
inspection into the subject, when considered apart from our
moral sentiments. It is evident property does not consist
in any of the sensible qualities of the object. For these may
continue invariably the same, while the property changes.
Property, therefore, must consist in some relation of the
object. But it is not in its relation with regard to other
external and inanimate objects. For these may also con-
tinue invariably the same, while the property changes. This
quality, therefore, consists in the relations of objects to
intelligent and rational beings. But it is not the external
and corporeal relation which forms the essence of property.
For that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects,
or with regard to brute creatures; though in those cases it
forms no property. It is therefore in some internal relation
that the property consists; that is, in some influence which
the external relations of the object have on the mind and
actions. Thus the external relation which we call occupation
or first possession, is not of itself imagined to be the property
of the object, but only to cause its property. Now. it is
evident this external relation causes nothing in external
objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving
us a sense of duty in abstaining from that object, and in
restoring it to the first possessor. These actions are properly
what we call justice ; and consequently it is on that virtue
that the nature of property depends, and not the virtue on
the property.

If any one, therefore, would assert that justice is a natural
virtue, and injustice a natural vice, he must assert that ab-
stracting from the notions of property and right and obligation
a certain conduct and train of actions, in certain external
relations of objects,has naturally amoral beauty or deformity,
and causes an original pleasure or uneasiness. Thus the
restoring a man's goods to him is considered as virtuous, not
because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of pleasure
to such a conduct with regard to the property of others, but
because she has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct,
with regard to those external objects of which others have had
the first or long possession, or which they have received by the

230 Hume's Philosophical Works

consent of those who have had first or long possession. If
nature has given us no such sentiment, there is not naturally,
nor antecedent to human conventions, any such thing as pro-
perty. Now, though it seems sufiiciently evident, in this dry
and accurate consideration of the present subject, that
nature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment of approbation
to such a conduct, yet, that I may leave as little room for
doubt as possible, I shall subjoin a few more arguments to
confirm my opinion.

First, If nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it
would have been as evident and discernible as on every other
occasion ; nor should we have found any difficulty to perceive
that the consideration of such actions, in such a situation,
gives a certain pleasure and sentiment of approbation. We
should not have been obliged to have recourse to notions of
property in the definition of justice, and at the same time
make use of the notions of justice in the definition of property.
This deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof tiiat there
are contained in the subject some obscurities and difficulties
which we are not able to surmount, and which we desire to
evade by this artifice.

Secondly, Those rules by which properties, rights, and
obligations are determined, have in them no marks of a
natural origin, but many of artifice and contrivance. They
are too numerous to have proceeded from nature; they are
changeable by human laws; and have all of them a direct
and evident tendency to public good, and the support of
civil society. This last circumstance is remarkable upon two
accounts. First, Because, though the cause of the estab-
lishment of these laws had been a regard for the public good,
as much as the public good is their natural tendency, they
would still have been artificial, as being purposely contrived
and directed to a certain end. Secondly, Because, if men had
been endowed with such a strong regard for public good, they
would never have restrained themselves by these rules; so
that the laws of justice arise from natural principles, in a
manner still more oblique and artificial. It is self-love which
is their real origin; and as the self-love of one person is
naturally contrary to that of another, these several interested
passions are obliged to adjust themselves after such a manner
as to concur in some system of conduct and behaviour. This

Of Morals 231

system, therefore, comprehending the interest of each indi-
vidual, is of course advantageous to the pubhc, though it be
not intended for that purpose by the inventors.

II. In the second place, we may observe that all kinds of
vice and virtue run insensibly into each other, and may
approach by such imperceptible degrees as will make it very
difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to determine when the
one ends, and the other begins; and from this observation
we may derive a new argument for the foregoing principle.
For, whatever may be the case with regard to all kinds of
vice and virtue, it is certain that rights, and obligations, and
property, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a
man either has a full and perfect property, or none at all;
and is either entirely obliged to perform any action, or
lies under no manner of obligation. However civil laws
may talk of a perfect dominion, and of an imperfect, it is
easy to observe, that this arises from a fiction, which has no
foundation in reason, and can never enter into our notions
of natural justice and equity. A man that hires a horse,
though but for a day, has as full a right to make use of it
for that time, as he whom we call its proprietor has to make
use of it any other day; and it is evident that, however the
use may be bounded in time or degree, the right itself is not
susceptible of any such gradation, but is absolute and entire,
so far as it extends. Accordingly, we may observe that this
right both arises and perishes in an instant; and that a man
entirely acquires the property of any object by occupation,
or the consent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own
consent, without any of that insensible gradation which
is remarkable in other qualities and relations. Since, there-
fore, this is the case with regard to property, and rights, and
obligations, I ask, how it stands with regard to justice and
injustice? After whatever manner you answer this question,
you run into inextricable difficulties. If you reply, that
justice and injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into
each other, you expressly contradict the foregoing position,
that obligation and property are not susceptible of such a
gradation. These depend entirely upon justice and injustice,
and follow them in all their variations. Where the justice
is entire, the property is also entire: where the justice is
imperfect, the property must also be imperfect. And vice

232 Hume's Philosophical Works

versa, if the property admit of no such variations, they must
also be incompatible with justice. If you assent, therefore,
to this last proposition, and assert that justice and injustice
are not susceptible of degrees, you in effect assert that they
are not naturally either vicious or virtuous; since vice and
virtue, moral good and evil, and indeed all natural qualities,
run insensibly into each other, and are on many occasions
undistinguishable.

And here it may be worth while to observe, that though
abstract reasoning and the general maxims of philosophy
and law establish this position, that property, and right, and
obligation, admit not of degrees, yet, in our common and
negligent way of thinking, we find great difficulty to entertain
that opinion, and do even secretly embrace the contrary-
principle. An object must either be in the possession of one
person or another. An action must either be performed
or not. The necessity there is of choosing one side in these
dilemmas, and the impossibility there often is of finding any
just medium, oblige us, when we reflect on the matter, to
acknowledge that all property and obligations are entire.
But, on the other hand, when we consider the origin of
property and obligation, and find that they depend on public
utility, and sometimes on the propensity of the imagination,
which are seldom entire on any side, we are naturally inclined
to imagine that these moral relations admit of an insensible
gradation. Hence it is that in references, where the consent
of the parties leave the referees entire masters of the subject,
they commonly discover so much equity and justice on both
sides as induces them to strike a medium, and divide the
difference betwixt the parties. Civil judges, who have not
this liberty, but are obliged to give a decisive sentence on
some one side, are often at a loss how to determine, and are
necessitated to proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the
world. Half rights and obligations, which seem so natural
in common life, are perfect absurdities in their tribunal;
for which reason they are often obliged to take half arguments
for whole ones, in order to terminate the affair one way or
the other.

III. The third argument of this kind I shall make use of
may be explained thus. If we consider the ordinary course of
human actions^ we shall find that the mind restrains not

Of Morals 233

itself by any general and universal rules, but acts on most
occasions as it is determined by its present motives and
inclination. As each action is a particular individual event,
it must proceed from particular principles, and from our
immediate situation within ourselves, and with respect to
the rest of the universe. If on some occasions we extend
our motives beyond those very circumstances which gave
rise to them, and form something like general rules for our
conduct, it is easy to observe that these rules are not perfectly
inflexible, but allow of many exceptions. Since, therefore,
this is the ordinary course of human actions, we may conclude
that the laws of justice, being universal and perfectly inflex-
ible, can never be derived from nature, nor be the immediate
offspring of any natural motive or inclination. No action
can be either morally good or evil, unless there be some
natural passion or motive to impel us to it, or deter us from
it; and it is evident that the morality must be susceptible
of all the same variations which are natural to the passion.
Here are two persons who dispute for an estate; of whom
one is rich, a fool, and a bachelor; the other poor, a man of
sense, and has a numerous family: the first is my enemy;
the second my friend. Whether I be actuated in this affair
by a view to public or private interest, by friendship or
enmity, I must be induced to do my utmost to procure the
estate to the latter. Nor would any consideration of the
right and property of the persons be able to restrain me,
were I actuated only by natural motives, without any
combination or convention with others. For as all property
depends on morality, and as all morality depends on the
ordinary course of our passions and actions, and as these
again are only directed by particular motives, it is evident
such a partial conduct must be suitable to the strictest
morality, and could never be a violation of property. Were
men, therefore, to take the liberty of acting with regard to
the laws of society, as they do in every other affair, they would
conduct themselves, on most occasions, by particular judg-
ments, and would take into consideration the characters and
circumstances of the persons, as well as the general nature of
\ the question. But it is easy to observe, that this would
i produce an infinite confusion in human society, and that the
avidity and partiality of men would quickly bring disorder

234 Hume's Philosophical Works

into the world, if not restrained by some general and inflexible
principles. It was therefore with a view to this inconvenience
that men have established those principles, and have agreed
to restrain themselves by general rules, which are unchange-
able by spite and favour, and by particular views of private
or public interest. These rules, then, are artificially invented
for a certain purpose, and are contrary to the common
principles of human nature, which accommodate themselves
to circumstances, and have no stated invariable method of
operation.

Nor do I perceive how I can easily be mistaken in this
matter. I see, evidently, that when any man imposes on
himself general inflexible rules in his conduct with others, he
considers certain objects as their property, which he supposes
to be sacred and inviolable. But no proposition can be more
evident, than that property is perfectly unintelligible without
first supposing justice and injustice; and that these virtues
and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives,
independent of the morality, to impel us to just actions,
and deter us from unjust ones. Let those motives, there-
fore, be what they will, they must accommodate themselves
to circumstances, and must admit of all the variations which
human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, are susceptible
of. They are, consequently, a very improper foundation
for such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and it is
evident these laws can only be derived from human conven-
tions, when men have perceived the disorders that result
from following their natural and variable principles.

Upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction
betwixt justice and injustice, as having two different founda-
tions, viz. that of interest, when men observe that it is
impossible to live in society without restraining themselves
by certain rules; and that of morality, when this interest
is once observed, and men receive a pleasure from the view
of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and an un-
easiness from such as are contrary to it. It is the voluntary
convention and artifice of men which makes the first interest
take place; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to
be considered as artificial. After that interest is once estab-
lished and acknowledged, the sense of morality in the observ-
ance of these rules follows naturally, and of itself; though it

Of Morals 235

is certain that it is also augmented by a new artifice, and
that the pubHc instructions of poHticians, and the private
education of parents, contribute to the giving us a sense of
honour and duty, in the strict regulation of our actions with
regard to the properties of others.

SECTION VII

OF THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT

Nothing is more certain than that men are in a great
measure governed by interest, and that, even when they
extend their concern beyond themselves, it is not to any
great distance; nor is it usual for them, in common life, to
look further than their nearest friends and acquaintance.
It is no less certain, that it is impossible for men to consult
their interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal
and inflexible observance of the rules of justice, by which
alone they can preserve society, and keep themselves from
falling into that wretched and savage condition which is
commonly represented as the state of nature. And as this
interest which all men have in the upholding of society, and
the observation of the rules of justice, is great, so is it palpable
and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated of the
human race; and it is almost impossible for any one who
has had experience of society, to be mistaken in this par-
ticular. Since, therefore, men are so sincerely attached to
their interest, and their interest is so much concerned in the
observance of justice, and this interest is so certain and
avowed, it may be asked, how any disorder can ever arise in
society, and what principle there is in human nature so
powerful as to overcome so strong a passion, or so violent as
to obscure so clear a knowledge ?

It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that men
are mightily governed by the imagination, and proportion
their affections more to the light under which any object
appears to them, than to its real and intrinsic value. What
strikes upon them with a strong and lively idea commonly
prevails above what lies in a more obscure light; and it must

236 Hume's Philosophical Works

be a great superiority of value that is able to compensate this
advantage. Now, as everything that is contiguous to us,
either in space or time, strikes upon us with such an idea, it
has a proportional effect on the will and passions, and
commonly operates with more force than any object that
lies in a more distant and obscure light. Though we may
be fully convinced that the latter object excels the former,
we are not able to regulate our actions by this judgment, but
yield to the solicitations of our passions, which always plead
in favour of whatever is near and contiguous.

This is the reason why men so often act in contradiction
to their known interest; and, in particular, why they prefer
any trivial advantage that is present, to the maintenance of
order in society, which so much depends on the observance
of justice. The consequences of every breach of equity
seem to lie very remote, and are not liable to counterbalance
any immediate advantage that may be reaped from it.
They are, however, never the less real for being remote; and
as all men are, in some degree, subject to the same weakness,
it necessarily happens, that the violations of equity must
become very frequent in society, and the commerce of men,
by that means, be rendered very dangerous and uncertain.
You have the same propension that I have in favour of what
is contiguous above what is remote. You are, therefore,
naturally carried to commit acts of injustice as well as me.
Your example both pushes me forward in this way by
imitation, and also affords me a new reason for any breach of
equity, by showing me that I should be the cully of my
integrity, if I alone should impose on myself a severe restraint
amidst the licentiousness of others.

This quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very
dangerous to society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be
incapable of any remedy. The remedy can only come from
the consent of men; and if men be incapable of themselves
to prefer remote to contiguous, they will never consent to
anything which would oblige them to such a choice, and
contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles
and propensities. Whoever chooses the means, chooses also
the end; and if it be impossible for us to prefer what is remote,
it is equally impossible for us to submit to any necessity
which would oblige us to such a method of acting.

Of Morals 237

But here it is observable, that this infirmity of human
nature becomes a remedy to itself, and that we provide
against our negligence about remote objects, merely because
we are naturally inclined to that negligence. When we
consider any objects at a distance, all their minute distinc-
tions vanish, and we always give the preference to whatever
is in itself preferable, without considering its situation and
circumstances. This gives rise to what, in an improper
sense, we call reason, which is a principle that is often con-
tradictor}' to those propensities that display themselves upon
the approach of the object. In reflecting on any action
which I am to perform a twelvemonth hence, I always resolve
to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it will be
more contiguous or remote; nor does any difference in that
particular make a difference in my present intentions and
resolutions. My distance from the final determination makes
all those minute differences vanish, nor am I affected by
anything but the general and more discernible qualities of
good and evil. But on my nearer approach, those circum-
stances which I at first overlooked begin to appear, and have
an influence on my conduct and affections. A new inclina-
tion to the present good springs up, and makes it difficult for
me to adhere inflexibly to my first purpose and resolution.
This natural infirmity I may very much regret, and I may
endeavour, by all possible means, to free myself from it. I
may have recourse to study and reflection within myself; to
the advice of friends; to frequent meditation, and repeated
resolution: And having experienced how ineffectual all these
are, I may embrace with pleasure any other expedient by
which I may impose a restraint upon myself, and guard
against this weakness.

The only difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient,
by which men cure their natural weakness, and lay them-
selves under the necessity of observing the laws of justice
and equity, notwithstanding their violent propension to
prefer contiguous to remote. It is evident such a remedy
can never be effectual without correcting this propensity;
and as it is impossible to change or correct anything material
in our nature, the utmost we can do is to change our circum-
stances and situation, and render the observance of the laws
of justice our nearest interest, and their violation our most

238 Hume's Philosophical Works

remote. But this being impracticable with respect to all
mankind, it can only take place with respect to a few, whom
we thus immediately interest in the execution of justice.
These are the persons whom we call civil magistrates, kings
and their ministers, our governors and rulers, who, being
indifferent persons to the greatest part of the state, have no
interest, or but a remote one, in any act of injustice; and,
being satisfied with their present condition, and with their
part in society, have an immediate interest in every execu-
tion of justice, which is so necessary to the upholding of
society. Here, then, is the origin of civil government and
society. Men are not able radically to cure, either in them-
selves or others, that narrowness of soul which makes them
prefer the present to the remote. They cannot change their
natures. AH they can do is to change their situation, and
render the observance of justice the immediate interest of
some particular persons, and its violation their more remote.
These persons, then, are not only induced to observe those
rules in their own conduct, but also to constrain others to a
like regularity, and enforce the dictates of equity through
the whole society. And if it be necessary, they may also
interest others more immediately in the execution of justice,
and create a number of officers, civil and military, to assist
them in their government.

But this execution of justice, though the principal, is not
the only advantage of government. As violent passion
hinders men from seeing distinctly the interest they have in
an equitable behaviour towards others, so it hinders them
from seeing that equity itself, and gives them a remarkable
partiality in their own favours. This inconvenience is
corrected in the same manner as that above mentioned.
The same persons who execute the laws of justice, will also
decide all controversies concerning them; and, being in-
different to the greatest part of the society, will decide them
more equitably than every one would in his own case.

By means of these two advantages in the execution and
decision of justice, men acquire a security against each other's
weakness and passion, as well as against their own, and,
under the shelter of their governors, begin to taste at ease
the sweets of society and mutual assistance. But govern-
ment extends further its beneficial influence; and, not

Of Morals 239

contented to protect men in those conventions they make
for their mutual interest, it often obhges them to make such
conventions, and forces them to seek their own advantage,
by a concurrence in some common end or purpose. There
is no quahty in human nature which causes more fatal
errors in our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer
whatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us
desire objects more according to their situation than their
intrinsic value. Two neighbours may agree to drain a
meadow, which they possess in common: because it is easy
for them to know each other's mind ; and each must perceive,
that the immediate consequence of his failing in his part, is
the abandoning the whole project. But it is very difficult,
and indeed impossible, that a thousand persons should agree
in any such action ; it being difficult for them to concert so
complicated a design, and still more difficult for them to
execute it; while each seeks a pretext to free himself of the
trouble and expense, and would lay the whole burden on
others. Political society easily remedies both these incon-
veniences. Magistrates find an immediate interest in the
interest of any considerable part of their subjects. They
need consult nobody but themselves to form any scheme for
the promoting of that interest. And as the failure of any
one piece in the execution is connected, though not immedi-
ately, with the failure of the whole, they prevent that
failure, because they find no interest in it, either immediate
or remote. Thus, bridges are built, harbours opened,
ramparts raised, canals formed, fleets equipped, and armies
disciplined, everywhere, by the care of government, which,
though composed of men subject to all human infirmities,
becomes, by one of the finest and most subtile inventions
imaginable, a composition which is in some measure exempted
from all these infirmities.

240 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION VIII

OF THE SOURCE OF ALLEGIANCE

Though government be an invention very advantageous,
and even in some circumstances absolutely necessary to
mankind, it is not necessary in all circumstances; nor is it
impossible for men to preserve society for some time, without
having recourse to such an invention. Men, it is true, are
always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant
and remote ; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation
of any advantage that they may immediately enjoy, in appre-
hension of an evil that lies at a distance from them ; but still
this weakness is less conspicuous where the possessions and
the pleasures of life are few and of little value, as they always
are in the infancy of society. An Indian is but little tempted
to dispossess another of his hut, or to steal his bow, as being
already provided of the same advantages; and as to any
superior fortune which may attend one above another in
hunting and fishing, it is only casual and temporary, and
will have but small tendency to disturb society. And so
far am I from thinking with some philosophers, that men are
utterly incapable of society without government, that I
assert the first rudiments of government to arise from
quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among
those of different societies. A less degree of riches will
suffice to this latter effect, than is requisite for the former.
Men fear nothing from public war and violence but the
resistance they meet with, which, because they share it in
common, seems less terrible, and, because it comes from
strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than
when they are exposed singly against one whose commerce
is advantageous to them, and without whose society it is
impossible they can subsist. Now foreign war, to a society
without government, necessarily produces civil war. Throw
any considerable goods among men, they instantly fall a
quarrelling, while each strives to get possession of what
pleases him, without regard to the consequences. In a

Of Morals 241

foreign war, the most considerable of all goods, life and
limbs, are at stake ; and as every one shuns dangerous ports,
seizes the best arms, seeks excuse for the slightest wounds,
the laws, which may be well enough observed while men
were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are in
such commotion.

This we find verified in the American tribes, where men
live in concord and amity among themselves, without any
established government, and never pay submission to any
of their fellows, except in time of war, when their captain
enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after their
return from the field and the establishment of peace with the
neighbouring tribes. This authority, however, instructs
them in the advantages of government, and teaches them
to have recourse to it, when, either by the pillage of war, by
commerce, or by any fortuitous inventions, their riches and
possessions have become so considerable as to make them
forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in the
preserv^ation of peace and justice. Hence we may give a
plausible reason, among others, why all governments are at
first monarchical, without any mixture and variety; and
why republics arise only from the abuses of monarchy and
despotic power. Camps are the true mothers of cities ; and
as war cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness
of every exigency, without some authority in a single person,
the same kind of authority naturally takes place in that
civil government which succeeds the military. And this
reason I take to be more natural than the common one
derived from patriarchal government, or the authority of a
father, which is said first to take place in one family, and to
accustom the members of it to the government of a single
person. The state of society without government is one of
the most natural states of men, and must subsist with the
conjunction of many families, and long after the first genera-
tion. Nothing but an increase of riches and possessions
could oblige men to quit it; and so barbarous and unin-
structed are all societies on their first formation, that many
years must elapse before these can increase to such a degree
as to disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord.

But though it be possible for men to maintain a small
uncultivated society without government, it is impossible
II Q

242 Hume's Philosophical Works

they should maintain a society of any kind without justice,
and the observance of those three fundamental laws concern-
ing the stability of possession, its translation by consent, and
the performance of promises. These are therefore ante-
cedent to government, and are supposed to impose an
obligation, before the duty of allegiance to civil magistrates
has once been thought of. Nay, I shall go further, and
assert, that government, upon its first establishment, would
naturally be supposed to derive its obligation from those
laws of nature, and, in particular, from that concerning the
performance of promises. When men have once perceived
the necessity of government to maintain peace and execute
justice, they would naturally assemble together, would
choose magistrates, determine their power, and promise
them obedience. As a promise is supposed to be a bond or
security already in use, and attended with a moral obliga-
tion, it is to be considered as the original sanction of govern-
ment, and as the source of the first obligation to obedience.
This reasoning appears so natural, that it has become the
foundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a
manner the creed of a party amongst us, who pride them-
selves, with reason, on the soundness of their philosophy,
and their liberty of thought. " All men," say they, " are
born free and equal: government and superiority can only
be established by consent: the consent of men, in establish-
ing government, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown
to the laws of nature. Men, therefore, are bound to obey
their magistrates, only because they promise it ; and if they
had not given their word, either expressly or tacitly, to
preserve allegiance, it would never have become a part of
their moral duty." This conclusion, however, when carried
so far as to comprehend government in all its ages and
situations, is entirely erroneous ; and I maintain, that though
the duty of allegiance be at first grafted on the obligation of
promises, and be for some time supported by that obligation,
yet it quickly takes root of itself, and has an original obliga-
tion and authority, independent of all contracts. This is
a principle of moment, which we must examine with care
and attention, before we proceed any further.

It is reasonable for those philosophers who assert justice
to be a natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions.

Of Morals 243

to resolve all civil allegiance into the obligation of a promise,
and assert that it is our own consent alone which binds us
to any submission to magistracy. For as all government
is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of most govern-
ments is known in history, it is necessary to mount higher,
in order to find the source of our political duties, if we would
assert them to have any Tiatural obligation of morality.
These philosophers, therefore, quickly observe, that society
is as ancient as the human species, and those three funda-
mental laws of nature as ancient as society; so that, taking
advantage of the antiquity and obscure origin of these laws,
they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary inventions
of men, and then seek to ingraft on them those other duties
which are more plainly artificial. But being once undeceived
in this particular, and having found that natural as well as
civil justice derives its origin from human conventions, we
shall quickly perceive how fruitless it is to resolve the one
into the other, and seek, in the laws of nature, a stronger
foundation for our political duties than interest and human
conventions; while these laws themselves are built on the very
same foundation. On whichever side we turn this subject,
we shall find that these two kinds of duties are exactly on
the same footing, and have the same source both of their
first invention and moral obligation. They are contrived to
remedy like inconveniences, and acquire their moral sanction
in the same manner, from their remedying those incon-
veniences. These are two points which we shall endeavour
to prove as distinctly as possible.

We have already shown, that men invented the three
fundamental laws of nature, when they observed the neces-
sity of society to their mutual subsistence, and found that
it was impossible to maintain any correspondence together,
without some restraint on their natural appetites. The
same self-love, therefore, which renders men so incommodious
to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction,
produces the rules of justice, and is the first motive of their
observance. But when men have observed, that though
the rules of justice be sufficient to maintain any society, yet
it is impossible for them, of themselves, to observe those
rules in large and polished societies; they establish govern-
ment as a new invention to attain their ends, and preserve

244 Hume's Philosophical Works

the old, or procure new advantages, by a more strict execution
of justice. So far, therefore, our civil duties are connected
with our natural, that the former are invented chiefly for the
sake of the latter; and that the principal object of govern-
ment is to constrain men to observe the laws of nature. In
this respect, however, that law of nature, concerning the
performance of promises, is only comprised along with the
rest; and its exact observance is to be considered as an
effect of the institution of government, and not the obedience
to government as an effect of the obligation of a promise.
Though the object of our civil duties be the enforcing of our
natural, yet the first ^ motive of the invention, as well as
performance of both, is nothing but self-interest; and since
there is a separate interest in the obedience to government,
from that in the performance of promises, we must also
allow of a separate obligation. To obey the civil magistrate
is requisite to preserve order and concord in society. To
perform promises is requisite to beget mutual trust and
confidence in the common offices of life. The ends, as well
as the means, are perfectly distinct; nor is the one sub-
ordinate to the other.

To make this more evident, let us consider that men will
often bind themselves by promises to the performance of
what it would have been their interest to perform, inde-
pendent of these promises ; as when they would give others
a fuller security, by superadding a new obligation of interest
to that which they formerly lay under. The interest in the
performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is
general, avowed, and of the last consequence in life. Other
interests may be more particular and doubtful; and we are
apt to entertain a greater suspicion, that men may indulge
their humour or passion in acting contrary to them. Here,
therefore, promises come naturally in play, and are often
required for fuller satisfaction and security. But supposing
those other interests to be as general and avowed as the
interest in the performance of a promise, they will be regarded
as on the same footing, and men will begin to repose the same
confidence in them. Now this is exactly the case with regard
to our civil duties, or obedience to the magistrate; without
which no government could subsist, nor any peace or order
* First in time, not in dignity or force.

Of Morals 245

be maintained in large societies, where there are so many-
possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, real or
imaginary, on the other. Our civil duties, therefore, must
soon detach themselves from our promises, and acquire a
separate force and influence. The interest in both is of the
very same kind: it is general, avowed, and prevails in all
times and places. There is, then, no pretext of reason for
founding the one upon the other, while each of them has a
foundation peculiar to itself. We might as well resolve the
obligation to abstain from the possessions of others, into the
obligation of a promise, as that of allegiance. The interests
are not more distinct in the one case than in the other. A
regard to property is not more necessary to natural society,
than obedience is to civil society or government; nor is the
former society more necessary to the being of mankind,
than the latter to their well-being and happiness. In short,
if the performance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience
to government; if the former interest be general, so is the
latter; if the one interest be obvious and avowed, so is the
other. And as these two rules are founded on like obligations
of interest, each of them must have a peculiar authority,
independent of the other.

But it is not only the natural obligations of interest,
which are distinct in promises and allegiance; but also the
moral obligations of honour and conscience: nor does the
merit or demerit of the one depend in the least upon that of
the other. And, indeed, if we consider the close connection
there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations, we shall
find this conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interest
is always engaged on the side of obedience to magistracy;
and there is nothing but a great present advantage that can
lead us to rebellion, by making us overlook the remote interest
which we have in the preserving of peace and order in society.
But though a present interest may thus blind us with regard
to our own actions, it takes not place with regard to those of
others ; nor hinders them from appearing in their true colours,
as highly prejudicial to public interest, and to our own in
particular. This naturally gives us an uneasiness, in consider-
ing such seditious and disloyal actions, and makes us attach
to them the idea of vice and moral deformity. It is the same
principle which causes us to disapprove of all kinds of private

246 Hume's Philosophical Works

injustice, and, in particular, of the breach of promises. We
blame all treachery and breach of faith; because we consider,
that the freedom and extent of human commerce depend
entirely on a fidelity with regard to promises. We blame all
disloyalty to magistrates ; because we perceive that the execu-
tion of justice, in the stability of possession, its translation
by consent, and the performance of promises, is impossible,
without submission to government. As there are here two
interests entirely distinct from each other, they must give
rise to two moral obligations, equally separate and inde-
pendent. Though there was no such thing as a promise
in the world, government would still be necessary in all large
and civilised societies; and if promises had only their own
proper obligation, without the separate sanction of govern-
ment, they would have but little efficacy in such societies.
This separates the boundaries of our public and private
duties, and shows that the latter are more dependent on the
former, than the former on the latter. Education, and the
artifice of politicians concur to bestow a further morality
on loyalty, and to brand all rebellion with a greater degree
of guilt and infamy. Nor is it a wonder that politicians
should be very industrious in inculcating such notions, where
their interest is so particularly concerned.

Lest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive
(as I think they are), I shall have recourse to authority,
and shall prove, from the universal consent of mankind,
that the obligation of submission to government is not
derived from any promise of the subjects. Nor need any
one wonder, that though I have all along endeavoured to
establish my system on pure reason, and have scarce ever
cited the judgment even of philosophers or historians on any
article, I should now appeal to popular authority, and oppose
the sentiments of the rabble to any philosophical reasoning.
For it must be observed, that the opinions of men, in this
case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in a great
measure, infallible. The distinction of moral good and evil
is founded on the pleasure or pain which results from the view
of any sentiment or character; and, as that pleasure or pain
cannot be unknown to the person who feels it, it follows,^

1 This proposition must hold strictly true with regard to everj' quality
that is determined merely by sentiment. In what sense we can talk

Of Morals 247

that there is just so much vice or virtue in any character
as every one places in it, and that it is impossible in this
particular we can ever be mistaken. And, though our
judgments concerning the origin of any vice or virtue, be not
so certain as those concerning their degrees, yet, since the
question in this case regards not any philosophical origin of
an obligation, but a plain matter of fact, it is not easily
conceived how we can fall into an error. A man who acknow-
ledges himself to be bound to another for a certain sum, must
certainly Imow whether it be by his own bond, or that of his
father; whether it be of his mere good-will, or for money lent
him; and under what conditions, and for what purposes,
he has bound himself. In like manner, it being certain
that there is a moral obligation to submit to government,
because every one thinks so ; it must be as certain that this
obligation arises not from a promise; since no one, whose
judgment has not been led astray by too strict adherence to
a system of philosophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it
to that origin. Neither magistrates nor subjects have
formed this idea of our civil duties.

We find that magistrates are so far from deriving their
authority, and the obligation to obedience in their subjects,
from the foundation of a promise or original contract, that
they conceal, as far as possible, from their people, especially
from the vulgar, that they have their origin from thence.
Were this the sanction of government, our rulers would never
receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be pretended;
since what is given tacitly and insensibly, can never have
such influence on mankind as what is performed expressly
and openly. A tacit promise is, where the will is signified
by other more diffuse signs than those of speech; but a
will there must certainly be in the case, and that can never
escape the person's notice who exerted it, however silent or
tacit. But were you to ask the far greatest part of the nation,
whether they had ever consented to the authority of their
rulers, or promised to obey them, they would be inclined to
think very strangely of you: and would certainly reply,

either of a right or a wrong taste in morals, eloquence, or beauty, shall
be considered afterwards. In the meantime it may be observed, that
there is such an uniformity in the general sentiments of mankind, as to
render such questions of but small importance.

248 Hume's Philosophical Works

that the affair depended not on their consent, but that they
were bom to such an obedience. In consequence of this
opinion, we frequently see them imagine such persons to be
their natural rulers, as are at that time deprived of all power
and authority, and whom no man, however foolish, would
voluntarily choose ; and this merely because they are in that
line which ruled before, and in that degree of it which used
to succeed: though perhaps in so distant a period, that
scarce any man alive could ever have given any promise
of obedience. Has a government, then, no authority over
such as these, because they never consented to it, and would
esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of
arrogance and impiety.? We find by experience, that it
punishes them very freely for what it calls treason and
rebellion, which, it seems, according to this system, reduces
itself to common injustice. If you say, that by dwelling in
its dominions, they in effect consented to the established
government, I answer, that this can only be where they think
the affair depends on their choice, which few or none beside
those philosophers have ever yet imagined. It never was
pleaded as an excuse for a rebel, that the first act he per-
formed, after he came to years of discretion, was to levy war
against the sovereign of the state; and that, while he was a
child he could not bind himself by his own consent, and
having become a man, showed plainly, by the first act he
performed, that he had no design to impose on himself any
obligation to obedience. We find, on the contrary, that
civil laws punish this crime at the same age as any other which
is criminal of itself, without our consent; that is, when the
person is come to the full use of reason: whereas to this
crime it ought in justice to allow some intermediate time,
in which a tacit consent at least might be supposed. To
which we may add, that a man living under an absolute
government would owe it no allegiance; since, by its very
nature, it depends not on consent. But as that is as natural
and common a government as any, it must certainly occasion
some obligation; and it is plain from experience, that men
who are subjected to it do always think so. This is a clear
proof that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance to be
derived from our consent or promise; and a further proof
is, that when our promise is upon any account expressly

Of Morals 249

engaged, we always distinguish exactly betwixt the two
obligations, and believe the one to add more force to the
other, than in a repetition of the same promise. Where no
promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken in
private matters, upon account of rebellion ; but keeps those
two duties of honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and
separate. As the uniting of them was thought by these
philosophers a very subtile invention, this is a convincing
proof that it is not a true one; since no man can either give
a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and obligation,
unknown to himself.

SECTION IX

OF THE MEASURES OF ALLEGIANCE

Those political writers who have had recourse to a promise,
or original contract, as the source of our allegiance to govern-
ment, intended to establish a principle which is perfectly
just and reasonable ; though the reasoning upon which they
endeavoured to establish it was fallacious and sophistical.
They would prove, that our submission to government
admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the
mlers is sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance.
Since men enter into society, say they, and submit themselves
to government by their free and voluntary consent, they
must have in view certain advantages which they propose
to reap from it, and for which they are contented to resign
their native liberty. There is therefore something mutual
engaged on the part of the magistrate, viz. protection and
security; and it is only by the hopes he affords of these
advantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to
him. But when, instead of protection and security, they
meet with tyranny and oppression, they are freed from their
promises, (as happens in all conditional contracts,) and
return to that state of liberty which preceded the institution
of government. Men would never be so foolish as to enter
into such engagements as should turn entirely to the advan-
tage of others, without any view of bettering their own con-

250 Hume's Philosophical Works

dition. Whoever proposes to draw any profit from our
submission, must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly,
to make us reap some advantage from his authority; nor
ought he to expect, that, without the performance of his part,
we will ever continue in obedience.

I repeat it: This conclusion is just, though the principles
be erroneous; and I flatter myself that I can establish the
same conclusion on more reasonable principles. I shall not
take such a compass, in establishing our political duties, as
to assert that men perceive the advantages of government;
that they institute government with a view to those advan-
tages ; that this institution requires a promise of obedience,
which imposes a moral obligation to a certain degree, but,
being conditional, ceases to be binding whenever the other
contracting party performs not his part of the engagement.
I perceive that a promise itself arises entirely from human
conventions, and is invented with a view to a certain interest.
I seek, therefore, some such interest more immediately
connected with government, and which may be at once the
original motive to its institution, and the source of our
obedience to it. This interest I find to consist in the security
and protection which we enjoy in political society, and
which we can never attain when perfectly free and inde-
pendent. As the interest, therefore, is the immediate
sanction of government, the one can have no longer being
than the other; and whenever the civil magistrate carries
his oppression so far as to render his authority perfectly
intolerable, we are no longer bound to submit to it. The
cause ceases; the effect must cease also.

So far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning
the natural obligation which we have to allegiance. As to
the moral obligation, we may observe that the maxim would
here be false, that when the cause ceases the effect must cease
also. For there is a principle of human nature, which we
have frequently taken notice of, that men are mightily
addicted to general rules, and that we often carry our maxims
beyond those reasons which first induced us to establish
them. Where cases are similar in many circumstances, we
are apt to put them on the same footing, without considering
that they differ in the most material circumstances, and that
the resemblance is more apparent than real. It may there-

Of Morals 251

fore be thought that, in the case of allegiance, our moral
obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural
obligation of interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and
that men may be bound by conscience to submit to a tyran-
nical government, against their own and the public interest.
And indeed, to the force of this argument I so far submit, as
to acknowledge, that general rules commonly extend beyond
the principles on which they are founded; and that we
seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception
have the qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very
numerous and common instances. Now this I assert to be
entirely the present case. When men submit to the authority
of others, it is to procure themselves some security against
the wickedness and injustice of men, who are perpetually
carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present and
immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society.
But as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we
know that it must attend men in all their states and condi-
tions; and that those whom we choose for rulers, do not
immediately become of a superior nature to the rest of man-
kind, upon account of their superior power and authority.
What we expect from them depends not on a change of their
nature, but of their situation, when they acquire a more
immediate interest in the preservation of order and the
execution of justice. But besides that this interest is only
more immediate in the execution of justice among their sub-
jects; besides this, I say, we may often expect, from the
irreg-ularity of human nature, that they will neglect even this
immediate interest, and be transported by their passions into
all the excesses of cruelty and ambition. Our general know-
ledge of human nature, our observation of the past history
of mankind, our experience of present times; all these causes
must induce us to open the door of exceptions, and must
make us conclude, that we may resist the more violent
effects of supreme power without any crime or injustice.

Accordingly we may obser\'e, that this is both the general
practice and principle of mankind, and that no nation that
could find any remedy ever yet suffered the cruel ravages of
a tyrant, or were blamed for their resistance. Those who
took up arms against Dionysius or Nero, or Philip the Second,
have the favour of every reader in the perusal of their history ;

252 Hume's Philosophical Works

and nothing but the most violent perversion of common sense
can ever lead us to condemn them. It is certain, therefore,
that in all our notions of morals, we never entertain such an
absurdity as that of passive obedience, but make allowances
for resistance in the more flagrant instances of tyranny and
oppression. The general opinion of mankind has some
authority in all cases; but in this of morals it is perfectly
infallible. Nor is it less infallible, because men cannot
distinctly explain the principles on which it is founded.
Few persons can carry on this train of reasoning: " Govern-
ment is a mere human invention for the interest of society.
Where the tyranny of the governor removes this interest, it
also removes the natural obligation to obedience. The moral
obligation is founded on the natural, and therefore must
cease where that ceases; especially where the subject is such
as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the natural
obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general
rule for the regulation of our conduct in such occurrences."
But though this train of reasoning be too subtile for the
vulgar, it is certain that all men have an implicit notion of it,
and are sensible that they owe obedience to government
merely on account of the public interest; and, at the same
time, that human nature is so subject to frailties and passions.
as may easily pervert this institution, and change their
governors into tyrants and public enemies. If the sense of
public interest were not our original motive to obedience, I
would fain ask, what other principle is there in human nature
capable of subduing the natural ambition of men, and forc-
ing them to such a submission? Imitation and custom are
not sufficient. For the question still recurs, what motive
first produces those instances of submission which we
imitate, and that train of actions which produces the custom ?
There evidently is no other principle than public interest;
and if interest first produces obedience to government, the
obligation to obedience must cease whenever the interest
ceases in any great degree, and in a considerable number of
instances.

Of Morals 253

SECTION X

OF THE OBJECTS OF ALLEGIANCE

But though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both
in sound politics and morality, to resist supreme power, it is
certain that, in the ordinary course of human affairs, nothing
can be more pernicious and criminal; and that, besides the
convulsions which always attend revolutions, such a practice
tends directly to the subversion of all government, and the
causing a universal anarchy and confusion among mankind.
As numerous and civilised societies cannot subsist without
government, so government is entirely useless without an
exact obedience. We ought always to weigh the advantages
which we reap from authority, against the disadvantages:
and by this means we shall become more scrupulous of putting
in practice the doctrine of resistance. The common rule
requires submission; and it is only in cases of grievous
tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place.

Since, then, such a blind submission is commonly due to
magistracy, the next question is, to whom it is due, and whom
we are to regard as our lawful magistrates ? In order to
answer this question, let us recollect what we have already
established concerning the origin of government and political
society. When men have once experienced the impossibility
of preserving any steady order in society, while every one is
his own master, and violates or observes the laws of interest,
according to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally
run into the invention of government, and put it out of their
own power, as far as possible, to transgress the laws of society.
Government, therefore, arises from the voluntary convention
of men; and it is evident, that the same convention which
establishes government, will also determine the persons who
are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in
this particular. And the voluntary consent of men must
here have the greater efficacy, that the authority of the
magistrate does at first stand upon the foundation of a
promise of the subjects, by which they bind themselves to

254 Hume's Philosophical Works

obedience^ as in every other contract or engagement. The
same promise^ then, which binds them to obedience, ties
them down to a particular person, and makes him the object
of their allegiance.

But when government has been established on this footing
for some considerable time, and the separate interests which
we have in submission has produced a separate sentiment of
morality, the case is entirely altered, and a promise is no
longer able to determine the particular magistrate; since it
is no longer considered as the foundation of government. We
naturally suppose ourselves born to submission; and imagine
that such particular persons have a right to command, as we
on our part are bound to obey. These notions of right and
obligation are derived from nothing but the advantage we
reap from government, which gives us a repugnance to
practise resistance ourselves, and makes us displeased with
any instance of it in others. But here it is remarkable, that
in this new state of affairs, the original sanction of govern-
ment, which is interest, is not admitted to determine the
persons whom we are to obey, as the original sanction did at
first, when affairs were on the footing of a promise. A
promise fixes and determines the persons, without any
uncertainty: but it is evident, that if men were to regulate
their conduct in this particular, by the view of a peculiar
interest, either public or private, they would involve them-
selves in endless confusion, and would render all government,
in a great measure, ineffectual. The private interest of
every one is different; and, though the public interest in
itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the source
of as great dissensions, by reason of the different opinions of
particular persons concerning it. The same interest, there-
fore, which causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us
renounce itself in the choice of our magistrates, and binds
us down to a certain form of government, and to particular
persons, without allowing us to aspire to the utmost perfec-
tion in either. The case is here the same as in that law of
nature concerning the stability of possession. It is highly
advantageous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that
possession should be stable; and this leads us to the estab-
lishment of such a rule: but we f^nd, that were we to follow
the same advantage, in assigning particular possessions to

Of Morals 255

particular persons, we should disappoint our end, and per-
petuate the confusion which that rule is intended to prevent.
We must therefore proceed by general rules, and regulate
ourselves by general interests, in modifying the law of nature
concerning the stability of possession. Nor need we fear,
that our attachment to this law will diminish upon account
of the seeming frivolousness of those interests by which it is
determined. The impulse of the mind is derived from a
very strong interest; and those other more minute interests
serve only to direct the motion, without adding anything to
it, or diminishing from it. It is the same case with govern-
ment. Nothing is more advantageous to society than such
an invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us
embrace it with ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged
afterwards to regulate and direct our devotion to govern-
ment by several considerations which are not of the same
importance, and to choose our magistrates without having
in view any particular advantage from the choice.

The first of those principles I shall take notice of, as a
foundation of the right of magistracy, is that which gives
authority to all the most established governments of the
world, without exception: I mean, long possession in any
one form of government, or succession of princes. It is
certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every nation,
we shall find that there scarce is any race of kings, or form
of a commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpa-
tion and rebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than
doubtful and uncertain. Time alone gives solidity to their
right; and, operating gradually on the minds of men,
reconciles them to any authority, and makes it seem just
and reasonable. Nothing causes any sentiment to have a
greater influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagina-
tion more strongly to any object. When we have been long
accustomed to obey any set of men, that general instinct or
tendency which we have to suppose a moral obligation
attending loyalty, takes easily this direction, and chooses
that set of men for its object. It is interest which gives the
general instinct; but it is custom which gives the particular
direction.

And here it is observable, that the same length of time has
a different influence on our sentiments of morality, according

256 Hume's Philosophical Works

to its different influence on the mind. We naturally judge
of everything by comparison; and since, in considering the
fate of kingdoms and republics, we embrace a long extent of
time, a small duration has not, in this case, a like influence
on our sentiments, as when we consider any other object.
One thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit of clothes,
in a very short time; but a century is scarce sufficient to
establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the
minds of the subjects concerning it. Add to this, that a
shorter period of time will suffice to give a prince a title to
any additional power he may usurp, than will serve to fix
his right, where the whole is an usurpation. The kings of
France have not been possessed of absolute power for above
two reigns; and yet nothing will appear more extravagant
to Frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. If we consider
what has been said concerning accession, we shall easily
account for this phenomenon.

When there is no form of government established by long
possession, the present possession is sufficient to supply its
place, and may be regarded as the second source of all public
authority. Right to authority is nothing but the constant
possession of authority, maintained by the laws of society
and the interests of mankind; and nothing can be more
natural than to join this constant possession to the present
one, according to the principles above mentioned. If the
same principles did not take place with regard to the pro-
perty of private persons, it was because these principles were
counterbalanced by very strong considerations of interest;
when we observed that all restitution would by that means
be prevented, and every violence be authorised and pro-
tected. And, though the same motives may seem to have
force with regard to public authority, yet they are opposed
by a contrary interest; which consists in the preservation of
peace, and the avoiding of all changes, which, however they
may be easily produced in private affairs, are unavoidably
attended with bloodshed and confusion where the public is
interested.

Any one who, finding the impossibility of accounting for
the right of the present possessor, by any received system of
ethics, should resolve to deny absolutely that right, and
assert that it is not authorised by morality, would be justly

Of Morals 257

thought to maintain a very extravagant paradox, and to
shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. No
maxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals,
than to submit quietly to the government which we find
estabhshed in the country where we happen to live, without
inquiring too curiously into its origin and first establishment.
Few governments will bear being examined so rigorously.
How many kingdoms are there at present in the world, and
how many more do we find in history, whose governors have
no better foundation for their authority than that of present
possession ! To confine ourselves to the Roman and Grecian
empire ; is it not evident, that the long succession of emperors,
from the dissolution of the Roman liberty, to the final ex-
tinction of that empire by the Turks, could not so much as
pretend to any other title to the empire? The election of
the senate was a mere form, which always followed the
choice of the legions; and these were almost always divided
in the different provinces, and nothing but the sword was
able to terminate the difference. It was by the sword,
therefore, that every emperor acquired, as well as defended,
his right; and we must either say, that all the known world,
for so many ages, had no government, and owed no allegiance
to any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger, in
public affairs, is to be received as legitimate, and authorised
by morality, when not opposed by any other title.

The right of conquest may be considered as a third source
of the title of sovereigns. This right resembles very much
that of present possession, but has rather a superior force,
being seconded by the notions of glory and honour which we
ascribe to conquerors, instead of the sentiments of hatred and
detestation which attend usurpers. Men naturally favour
those they love; and therefore are more apt to ascribe a
right to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and
another, than to the successful rebellion of a subject against
his sovereign.^

1 It is not here asserted, that present possession or conquest are suffi-
cient to give a title against long possession and positive laws : but only
that they have some force, and will be able to cast the balance where
the titles are otherwise equal, and will even be sufficient sometimes to
sanctify the weaker title. What degree of force they have is difficult
to determine. I believe all moderate men will allow, that they have
great force in all disputes concerning the rights of princes.

n R

258 Hume's Philosophical Works

When neither long possession, nor present possession, nor
conquest take place, as when the first sovereign who founded
any monarchy dies; in that case, the right of succession
naturally prevails in their stead, and men are commonly
induced to place the son of their late monarch on the throne,
and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. The pre-
sumed consent of the father, the imitation of the succession
to private families, the interest which the state has in choos-
ing the person who is most powerful and has the most
numerous followers; all these reasons lead men to prefer
the son of their late monarch to any other person.^

These reasons have some weight; but I am persuaded,
that, to one who considers impartially of the matter, it will
appear that there concur some principles of the imagination
along with those views of interest. The royal authority
seems to be connected with the young prince even in his
father's lifetime, by the natural transition of the thought,
and still more after his death; so that nothing is more
natural than to complete this union by a new relation, and
by putting him actually in possession of what seems so
naturally to belong to him.

To confirm this, we may weigh the following phenomena,
which are pretty curious in their kind. In elective mon-
archies, the right of succession has no place by the laws and
settled custom; and yet its influence is so natural, that it is
impossible entirely to exclude it from the imagination, and
render the subjects indifferent to the son of their deceased
monarch. Hence, in some governments of this kind, the
choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family;
and in some governments they are all excluded. Those
contrary phenomena proceed from the same principle.
Where the royal family is excluded, it is from a refinement
in politics, which makes people sensible of their propensity
to choose a sovereign in that family, and gives them a
jealousy of their liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by
this propensity, should establish his family, and destroy the
freedom of elections for the future.

1 To prevent mistakes I must observe, that this case of succession is
not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where custom has
fixed the right of succession. These depend upon the principle of long
possession above explained.

Of Morals 259

The history of Artaxerxes and the younger Cjnrus, may
furnish us with some reflections to the same purpose. Cyrus
pretended a right to the throne above his elder brother,
because he was born after his father's accession. I do not
pretend that this reason was valid. I would only infer from
it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext,
were it not for the qualities of the imagination above
mentioned, by which we are naturally inclined to unite by
a new relation whatever objects we find already united.
Artaxerxes had an advantage above his brother, as being the
eldest son, and the first in succession; but Cyrus was more
closely related to the royal authority, as being begot after
his father was invested with it.

Should it here be pretended, that the view of convenience
may be the source of all the right of succession, and that men
gladly take advantage of any rule by which they can fix the
successor of their late sovereign, and prevent that anarchy
and confusion which attends all new elections; to this I
would answer, that I readily allow that this motive may
contribute something to the effect; but at the same time
I assert, that, without another principle, it is impossible
such a motive should take place. The interest of a nation
requires that the succession to the crown should be fixed one
way or other; but it is the same thing to its interest in what
way it be fixed; so that if the relation of blood had not an
effect independent of public interest, it would never have
been regarded without a positive law; and it would have
been impossible that so many positive laws of different
nations could ever have concurred precisely in the same views
and intentions.

This leads us to consider the fifth source of authority,
viz. positive laws, when the legislature establishes a certain
form of government and succession of princes. At first
sight, it may be thought that this must resolve into some
of the preceding titles of authority. The legislative power,
whence the positive law is derived, must either be established
by original contract, long possession, present possession,
conquest, or succession; and consequently the positive law
must derive its force from some of those principles. But
here it is remarkable, that though a positive law can only
derive its force from these principles, yet it acquires not all

26o Hume's Philosophical Works

the force of the principle from whence it is derived, but loses
considerably in the transition, as it is natural to imagine.
For instance, a government is established for many centuries
on a certain system of laws, forms, and methods of succession.
The legislative power established by this long succession,
changes, all on a sudden, the whole system of government,
and introduces a new constitution in its stead. I believe
few of the subjects will think themselves bound to comply
with this alteration, unless it have an evident tendency to
the public good, but will think themselves still at liberty
to return to the ancient government. Hence the notion of
fundamental laws, which are supposed to be unalterable by
the will of the sovereign; and of this nature the Salic law
is understood to be in France. How far these fundamental
laws extend, is not determined in any government, nor is it
possible it ever should. There is such an insensible gradation
from the most material laws to the most trivial, and from
the most ancient laws to the most modern, that it will be
impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and deter-
mine how far it may innovate in the principles of government.
That is the work more of imagination and passion than of
reason.

Whoever considers the history of the several nations
of the world, their revolutions, conquests, increase, and
diminution, the manner in which their particular govern-
ments are established, and the successive right transmitted
from one person to another, will soon learn to treat ver}-
lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will
be convinced that a strict adherence to any general rules,
and the rigid loyalty to particular persons and families, on
which some people set so high a value, are virtues that hold
less of reason than of bigotry and superstition. In this
particular, the study of history confirms the reasonings of
true philosophy, which, showing us the original qualities of
human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in
politics as incapable of any decision in most cases, and as
entirely subordinate to the interests of peace and liberty.
Where the public good does not evidently demand a change,
it is certain that the concurrence of all those titles, original
contract, lofig possession, present possession, succession, and
positive laws, forms the strongest title to sovereignty, and is

Of Morals 261

justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. But when these
titles are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they
often occasion perplexity, and are less capable of solution
from the arguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from
the swords of the soldiery. Who shall tell me, for instance,
whether Germanicus or Drusus ought to have succeeded
Tiberius, had he died while they were both alive, without
naming any of them for his successor.? Ought the right of
adoption to be received as equivalent to that of blood, in
a nation where it had the same effect in private families,
and had already, in two instances, taken place in the public ?
Ought Germanicus to be esteemed the eldest son, because he
was bom before Drusus; or the younger, because he was
adopted after the birth of his brother? Ought the right of
the elder to be regarded in a nation, where the eldest brother
had no advantage in the succession to private families?
Ought the Roman empire at that time to be esteemed heredit-
ary, because of two examples; or ought it, even so early,
to be regarded as belonging to the stronger, or the present
possessor, as being founded on so recent an usurpation?
Upon whatever principles we may pretend to answer these
and such like questions, I am afraid we shall never be able to
satisfy an impartial inquirer, who adopts no party in political
controversies, and will be satisfied with nothing but sound
reason and philosophy.

But here an English reader will be apt to inquire concerning
that famous revolution which has had such a happy influence
on our constitution, and has been attended with such mighty
consequences. We have already remarked, that, in the case
of enormous tyranny and oppression, it is lawful to take arms
even against supreme power; and that, as government is a
mere human invention, for mutual advantage and security,
it no longer imposes any obligation, either natural or moral,
when once it ceases to have that tendency. But though
this general principle be authorised by common sense, and
the practice of all ages, it is certainly impossible for the laws,
or even for philosophy, to establish any particular rules by
which we may know when resistance is lawful, and decide
all controversies which may arise on that subject. This
may not only happen with regard to supreme power, but it
is possible, even in some constitutions, where the legislative

262 Hume's Philosophical Works

authority is not lodged in one person, that there may be a
magistrate so eminent and powerful as to oblige the laws
to keep silence in this particular. Nor would this silence
be an effect only of their respect, but also of their prudence ;
since it is certain that, in the vast variety of circumstances
which occur in all governments, an exercise of power, in so
great a magistrate, may at one time be beneficial to the
public, which at another time would be pernicious and
t}Tannical. But notwithstanding this silence of the laws
in limited monarchies, it is certain that the people still retain
the right of resistance ; since it is impossible, even in the most
despotic governments, to deprive them of it. The same
necessity of self-preservation, and the same motive of public
good, give them the same liberty in the one case as in the
other. And we may further observe, that in such mixed
governments, the cases wherein resistance is lawful must
occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to the
subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in
arbitrary governments. Not only where the chief magistrate
enters into measures in themselves extremely pernicious to
the public, but even when he would encroach on the other
parts of the constitution, and extend his power beyond
the legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone him;
though such resistance and violence may, in the general
tenor of the laws, be deemed unlawful and rebellious. For,
besides that nothing is more essential to public interest than
the preservation of public liberty, it is evident, that if such
a mixed government be once supposed to be established,
every part or member of the constitution must have a right
of self-defence, and of maintaining its ancient bounds against
the encroachment of every other authority. As matter
would have been created in vain, were it deprived of a power
of resistance, without which no part of it could preserve a
distinct existence, and the whole might be crowded up into
a single point; so it is a gross absurdity to suppose, in any
government, a right without a remedy, or allow that the
supreme power is shared with the people, without allowing
that it is lawful for them to defend their share against every
invader. Those, therefore, who would seem to respect our
free government, and yet deny the right of resistance, have

Of Morals 263

renounced all pretensions to common sense, and do not merit
a serious answer.

It does not belong to my present purpose to show that
these general principles are applicable to the late revolution ;
and that all the rights and privileges which ought to be
sacred to a free nation, were at that time threatened with
the utmost danger. I am better pleased to leave this con-
troverted subject, if it really admits of controversy, and to
indulge myself in some philosophical reflections which
naturally arise from that important event.

First, We may observe, that should the lords and commons
in our constitution, without any reason from public interest,
either depose the king in being, or, after his death, exclude
the prince, who, by laws and settled custom, ought to succeed,
no one would esteem their proceedings legal, or think them-
selves bound to comply with them. But should the king,
by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a tyrannical and
despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not only
becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political
society to dethrone him; but, what is more, we are apt like-
wise to think that the remaining members of the constitution
acquire a right of excluding his next heir, and of choosing
whom they please for his successor. This is founded on a
very singular quality of our thought and imagination. When
a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought naturally to remain
in the same situation as if the king were removed by death;
unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for
himself. But though this may seem reasonable, we easily
comply with the contrary opinion. The deposition of a
king, in such a government as ours, is certainly an act beyond
all common authority; and an illegal assuming a power
for public good, which, in the ordinary course of government,
can belong to no member of the constitution. When the
public good is so great and so evident as to justify the action,
the commendable use of this licence causes us naturally to
attribute to the parliament a right of using further licences ;
and the ancient bounds of the laws being once transgressed
with approbation, we are not apt to be so strict in confining
ourselves precisely within their limits. The mind naturally
runs on with any train of action which it has begun ; nor do
we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after

264 Hume's Philosophical Works

the first action of any kind which we perform. Thus at the
revolution, no one who thought the deposition of the father
justifiable, esteemed themselves to be confined to his infant
son; though, had that unhappy monarch died innocent at
that time, and had his son, by any accident, been conveyed
beyond seas, there is no doubt but a regency would have been
appointed till he should come to age, and could be restored
to his dominions. As the slightest properties of the imagina-
tion have an effect on the judgments of the people, it shows
the wisdom of the laws and of the parliament to take advan-
tage of such properties, and to choose the magistrates either
in or out of a line, according as the \iilgar will most naturally
attribute authority and right to them.

Secondly, Though the accession of the Prince of Orange
to the throne might at first give occasion to many disputes,
and his title be contested, it ought not now to appear doubtful,
but must have acquired a sufficient authority from those
three princes who have succeeded him upon the same title.
Nothing is more usual, though nothing may, at first sight,
appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking.
Princes often seem to acquire a right from their successors,
as well as from their ancestors; and a king who, during his
lifetime, might justly be deemed a usurper, will be regarded
by posterity as a lawful prince, because he has had the good
fortune to settle his family on the throne, and entirely change
the ancient form of government. Julius Csesar is regarded
as the first Roman emperor; while Sylla and Marius, whose
titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and
usurpers. Time and custom give authority to all forms of
goverrunent, and all successions of princes ; and that power,
which at first was founded only on injustice and violence,
becomes in time legal and obligatory. Nor does the mind
rest there; but, returning back upon its footsteps, transfers
to their predecessors and ancestors that right which it natur-
ally ascribes to the posterity, as being related together, and
united in the imagination. The present King of France
makes Hugh Capet a more lawful prince than Cromwell;
as the established liberty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable
apology for their obstinate resistance to Philip the Second.

Of Morals 265

SECTION XI

OF THE LAWS OF NATIONS

When civil government has been established over the
greatest part of mankind, and different societies have been
formed contiguous to each other, there arises a new set of
duties among the neighbouring states, suitable to the nature
of that commerce which they carry on with each other.
Political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse,
a body politic is to be considered as one person ; and, indeed,
this assertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as
private persons, require mutual assistance; at the same
time that their selfishness and ambition are perpetual sources
of war and discord. But though nations in this particular
resemble individuals, yet as they are very different in other
respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by different
maxims, and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call
the laws of nations. Under this head we may comprise the
sacredness of the persons of ambassadors, the declaration
of war, the abstaining from poisoned arms, with other duties
of that kind, which are evidently calculated for the commerce
that is peculiar to different societies.

But though these rules be superadded to the laws of
nature, the former do not entirely abolish the latter; and one
may safely affirm, that the three fundamental rules of justice,
the stability of possession, its transference by consent, and
the performance of promises, are duties of princes as well as
of subjects. The same interest produces the same effect in
both cases. Where possession has no stability, there must
be perpetual war. Where property is not transferred by
consent, there can be no commerce. Where promises are
not observed, there can be no leagues nor alliances. The
advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce, and mutual
succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same
notions of justice which take place among individuals.

There is a maxim very current in the world, which few
politicians are willing to avow, but which has been authorised

266 Hume's Philosophical Works

by the practice of all ages, that there is a system of morals
calculated for princes, much more free than that which ought
to govern -private persons. It is evident this is not to be
understood of the lesser extent of public duties and obliga-
tions; nor will any one be so extravagant as to assert, that
the most solemn treaties ought to have no force among
princes. For as princes do actually form treaties among
themselves, they must propose some advantage from the
execution of them; and the prospect of such advantage for
the future must engage them to perform their part, and
must establish that law of nature. The meaning, therefore,
of this political maxim is, that though the morality of princes
has the same extent, yet it has not the same /or te as that of
private persons, and may lawfully be transgressed from a
more trivial motive. However shocking such a proposition
may appear to certain philosophers, it will be easy to defend
it upon those principles, by which we have accounted for the
origin of justice and equity.

When men have found by experience that it is impossible
to subsist without society, and that it is impossible to main-
tain society, while they give free course to their appetites;
so urgent an interest quickly restrains their actions, and
imposes an obligation to observe those rules which we call
the laws of justice. This obligation of interest rests not here ;
but, by the necessary course of the passions and sentiments,
gives rise to the moral obligation of duty ; while we approve
of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove
of such as tend to its disturbance. The same natural obliga-
tion of interest takes place among independent kingdoms,
and gives rise to the same morality; so that no one of ever
so corrupt morals will approve of a prince who voluntarily,
and of his own accord, breaks his word, or violates any treaty.
But here we may observe, that though the intercourse of
different states be advantageous, and even sometimes
necessary, yet it is not so necessary nor advantageous as that
among individuals, without which it is utterly impossible
for human nature ever to subsist. Since, therefore, the
natural obligation to justice, among different states, is not so
strong as among individuals, the moral obligation which
arises from it must partake of its weakness; and we must
necessarily give a greater indulgence to a prince or minister

Of Morals 267

who deceives another, than to a private gentleman who breaks
his word of honour.

Should it be asked, what proportion these two species of
morality bear to each other ? I would answer, that this is a
question to which we can never give any precise answer;
nor is it possible to reduce to numbers the proportion which
we ought to fix betwixt them. One may safely affirm, that
this proportion finds itself without any art or study of men;
as we may observe on many other occasions. The practice
of the world goes further in teaching us the degrees of our
duty, than the most subtile philosophy which was ever yet
invented. And this may serve as a convincing proof, that all
men have an implicit notion of the foundation of those moral
rules concerning natural and civil justice, and are sensible
that they arise merely from human conventions, and from
the interest which we have in the preservation of peace and
order. For otherwise the diminution of the interest would
never produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us
more easily to any transgression of justice among princes
and republics, than in the private commerce of one subject
with another.

SECTION XII

OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY

If any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of
nature and nations, it will be with regard to the universal
approbation or blame which follows their observance or trans-
gression, and which some may not think sufficiently explained
from the general interests of society. To remove, as far as
possible, all scruples of this kind, I shall here consider another
set of duties, viz. the modesty and chastity which belong to the
fair sex: and I doubt not but these virtues will be found to
be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those
principles which I have insisted on.

There are some philosophers who attack the female virtues
with great vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in
detecting popular errors, when they can show that there is

268 Hume's Philosophical Works

no foundation in nature for all that exterior modesty which
we require in the expressions, and dress, and behaviour of
the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the trouble of
insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without
further preparation, to examine after what manner such
notions arise from education, from the voluntary conventions
of men, and from the interest of society.

Whoever considers the length and feebleness of human
infancy, with the concern which both sexes naturally have
for their offspring, will easily perceive that there must be a
union of male and female for the education of the young, and
that this union must be of considerable duration. But in
order to induce the men to impose on themselves this restraint,
and undergo cheerfully all the fatigues and expenses to which
it subjects them, they must believe that their children are
their own, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a
wrong object, when they give loose to love and tenderness.
Now, if we examine the structure of the human body, we
shall find, that this security is very difficult to be attained
on our part; and that since, in the copulation of the sexes,
the principle of generation goes from the man to the woman,
an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though
it be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. From this
trivial and anatomical observation is derived that vast
difference betwixt the education and duties of the two sexes.

Were a philosopher to examine the matter a -priori, he
would reason after the following manner. Men are induced
to labour for the maintenance and education of their children,
by the persuasion that they are really their own ; and there-
fore it is reasonable, and even necessary, to give them some
security in this particular. This security cannot consist
entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any trans-
gressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since
these public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal
proof, which it is difficult to meet with in this subject. What
restraint, therefore, shall we impose on women, in order to
counterbalance so strong a temptation as they have to
infidelity? There seems to be no restraint possible, but in
the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment
which has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the
same time is inflicted by the world upon surmises and con-

Of Morals 269

jectures, and proofs that would never be received in any
court of judicature. In order, tlierefore, to impose a due
restraint on the female sex, we must attach a peculiar degree
of shame to their infidelity, above what arises merely from
its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on their
chastity.

But though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our
philosopher would quickly discover that it would not alone
be sufficient to that purpose. All human creatures, especially
of the female sex, are apt to overlook remote motives in favour
of any present temptation: the temptation is here the
strongest imaginable; its approaches are insensible and
seducing; and a woman easily finds, or flatters herself she
shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and pre-
venting all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. It is
necessary, therefore, that besides the infamy attending such
licences, there should be some preceding backwardness or
dread, which may prevent their first approaches, and may
give the female sex a repugnance to all expressions, and
postures, and liberties, that have immediate relation to that
enjoyment.

Such would be the reasonings of our speculative philo-
sopher; but I am persuaded that, if he had not a perfect
knowledge of human nature, he would be apt to regard them
as m.ere chimerical speculations, and would consider the
infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its
approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than
hoped for in the world. For what means, would he say, of
persuading mankind that the transgressions of conjugal duty
are more infamous than any other kind of injustice, when it.
is evident they are more excusable, upon account of the
greatness of the temptation ? And what possibility of giving
a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure to which
nature has inspired so strong a propensity, and a propensity
that it is absolutely necessary in the end to comply with,
for the support of the species ?

But speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains
to philosophers, are often formed by the world naturally, and
without reflection; as difficulties which seem unsurmountable
in theory, are easily got over in practice. Those who have
an interest in the fidelity of women, naturally disapprove of.

270 Hume's Philosophical Works

their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. Those who
have no interest are carried along with the stream. Educa-
tion takes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in
their infancy. And when a general rule of this kind is once
established, men are apt to extend it beyond those principles
from which it first arose. Thus bachelors, however de-
bauched, cannot choose but be shocked with any instance of
lewdness or impudence in woman. And though all these
maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past
child-bearing have no more privilege in this respect than
those who are in the flower of their youth and beauty. Men
have undoubtedly an implicit notion, that all those ideas of
modesty and decency have a regard to generation; since they
impose not the same laws, with the same force, on the male
sex, where that reason takes not place. The exception is
there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable
difference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction
of ideas. But as the case is not the same with regard to the
different ages of women, for this reason, though men know
that these notions are founded on the public interest, yet the
general rule carries us beyond the original principle, and
makes us extend the notions of modesty over the whole sex,
from their earliest infancy to their extremest old age and
infirmity.

Courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives
its merit in a great measure from artifice, as well as the
chastity of women; though it has also some foundation in
nature, as we shall see afterwards.

As to the obligations which the male sex lie under with
regard to chastity, we may observe that, according to the
general notions of the world, they bear nearly the same
proportion to the obligations of women, as the obligations
of the law of nations do to those of the law of nature. It is
contrary to the interest of civil society, that men should have
an entire hberty of indulging their appetites in venereal enjoy-
ment; but as this interest is weaker than in the case of the
female sex, the moral obligation arising from it must be pro-
portionably weaker. And to prove this we need only appeal
to the practice and sentiments of all nations and ages.

PART III

OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES

SECTION I

OF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES

We come now to the examination of such virtues and vices
as are entirely natural, and have no dependence on the artifice
and contrivance of men. The examination of these will
conclude this system of morals.

The chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind
is pleasure or pain; and when these sensations are removed,
both from our thought and feeling, we are in a great measure
incapable of passion or action, of desire or volition. The
most immediate effects of pleasure and pain are the propense
and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified into
volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and
fear, according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation,
and becomes probable or improbable, certain or uncertain,
or is considered as out of our power for the present moment.
But when, along with this, the objects that cause pleasure or
pain acquire a relation to ourselves or others, they still con-
tinue to excite desire and aversion, grief and joy; but cause,
at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or humility,
love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of
impressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure.

We have already observed, that moral distinctions depend
entirely on certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure,
and that whatever mental quality in ourselves or others
gives us a satisfaction, by the survey or reflection, is of course
virtuous; as everything of this nature that gives uneasiness
is vicious. Now, since every quality in ourselves or others
which gives pleasure, always causes pride or love, as every
one that produces uneasiness excites humility or hatred, it

271

272 Hume's Philosophical Works

follows that these two particulars are to be considered as
equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, virtue and
the power of producing love or pride, vice and the power of
producing humility or hatred. In every case, therefore, we
must judge of the one by the other, and may pronounce any
quality of the mind virtuous which causes love or pride, and
any one vicious which causes hatred or humility.

If any action be either virtuous or vicious, it is only as a
sign of some quality or character. It must depend upon
durable principles of the mind, which extend over the whole
conduct, and enter into the personal character. Actions
themselves, not proceeding from any constant principle,
have no influence on love or hatred, pride or humility; and
consequently are never considered in morality.

This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended
to, as being of the utmost importance in the present subject.
We are never to consider any single action in our inquiries
concerning the origin of morals, but only the quality or
character from which the action proceeded. These alone
are durable enough to affect our sentiments concerning the
person. Actions are indeed better indications of a character
than words, or even wishes and sentiments ; but it is only so
far as they are such indications that they are attended with
love or hatred, praise or blame.

To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or
hatred which arises from mental qualities, we must take the
matter pretty deep, and compare some principles which have
been already examined and explained.

We may begin with considering anew the nature and force
of sympathy. The minds of all men are similar in their feel-
ings and operations; nor can any one be actuated by any
affection of which all others are not in some degree sus-
ceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion of
one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affections
readily pass from one person to another, and beget corre-
spondent movements in every human creature. When I see
the effects of passion in the voice and gesture of any person,
my mind immediately passes from these effects to their
causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion as is
presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner,
when I perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is con-

Of Morals 273

veyed to the effects, and is actuated with a like emotion.
Were I present at any of the more terrible operations of
surgery, it is certain that, even before it begun, the prepara-
tion of the instruments, the laying of the bandages in order,
the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and
concern in the patient and assistants, would have a great
effect upon my mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of
pity and terror. No passion of another discovers itself
immediately to the mind. We are only sensible of its causes
or effects. From these we infer the passion; and conse-
quently these give rise to our s5Tnpathy.

Our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle;
and where any object has a tendency to produce pleasure in
its possessor, it is always regarded as beautiful; as every
object that has a tendency to produce pain is disagreeable
and deformed. Thus, the conveniency of a house, the
fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity,
security, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal
beauty of these several objects. Here the object, which is
denominated beautiful, pleases only by its tendency to pro-
duce a certain effect. That effect is the pleasure or advantage
of some other person. Now, the pleasure of a stranger for
whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy.
To this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty which we
find in everything that is useful. How considerable a part
this is of beauty will easily appear upon reflection. Wherever
an object has a tendency to produce pleasure in the possessor,
or_, in other words, is the proper cause of pleasure, it is sure
to please the spectator, by a delicate sympathy with the
possessor. Most of the works of art are esteemed beautiful,
in proportion to their fitness for the use of man; and even
many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from
that source. Handsome and beautiful, on most occasions,
is not an absolute, but a relative quality, and pleases us by
nothing but its tendency to produce an end that is agreeable.^

The same principle produces, in many instances, our senti-
ments of morals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is

' Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior. Pul-
cher aspectu sit athleta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem
certamini paratior. Nunquam vero species ab utUitate dividitur.
Sed hoc quidem discemere, modici judicii est. — Quinct. lib. 8.

II S

274 Hume's Philosophical Works

more esteemed than justicCj and no vice more detested than
injustice; nor are there any qualities which go further to the
fijcing the character^ either as amiable or odious. Now
justice is a moral virtue, merely because it has that tendency
to the good of mankind, and indeed is nothing but an artificial
invention to that purpose. The same may be said of allegi-
ance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good manners.
All these are mere human contrivances for the interest of
society. And since there is a very strong sentiment of
morals, which in all nations and all ages has attended them,
we must allow that the reflecting on the tendency of char-
acters and mental qualities is sufficient to give us the senti-
ments of approbation and blame. Now, as the means to an
end can only be agreeable where the end is agreeable, and as
the good of society, where our own interest is not concerned,
or that of our friends, pleases only by sympathy, it follows
that sjTTipathy is the source of the esteem which we pay to
all the artificial virtues.

Thus it appears that sympathy is a very powerful principle
in human nature, that it has a great influence on our taste of
beauty, and that it produces our sentiment of morals in all
the artificial virtues. From thence we may presume, that
it also gives rise to many of the other virtues, and that
qualities acquire our approbation because of their tendency
to the good of mankind. This presumption must become a
certainty, when we find that most of those qualities which we
naturally approve of, have actually that tendency, and render
a man a proper member of society; while the qualities which
we naturally disapprove of have a contrary tendency, and
render any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagree-
able. For having found that such tendencies have force
enough to produce the strongest sentiment of morals, we can
never reasonably, in these cases, look for any other cause of
approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim in
philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for
an effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to
multiply causes without necessity. We have happily attained
experiments in the artificial virtues, where the tendency of
quahties to the good of society is the sole cause of our appro-
bation, without any suspicion of the concurrence of another
principle. From thence we learn the force of that principle.

Of Morals 275

And where that principle may take place, and the quality
approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher
will never require any other principle to account for the
strongest approbation and esteem.

That many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the
good of society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, beneficence,
charity, generosity, clemency, moderation, equity, bear the
greatest figure among the moral qualities, and are commonly
denominated the social virtues, to mark their tendency to
the good of society. This goes so far that some philosophers
have represented all moral distinctions as the effect of artifice
and education, when skilful politicians endeavoured to
restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them
operate to the public good, by the notions of honour and
shame. This system, however, is not consistent with experi-
ence. For, first, There are other virtues and vices beside
those which have this tendency to the public advantage and
loss. Secondly, Had not men a natural sentiment of appro-
bation and blame, it could never be excited by politicians;
nor would the words laudable and praiseworthy, blamable and
odious, be any more intelligible than if they were a language
perfectly unknown to us, as we have already observed. But
though this system be erroneous, it may teach us that moral
distinctions arise in a great measure from the tendency of
qualities and characters to the interests of society, and that
it is our concern for that interest which makes us approve
or disapprove of them. Now, we have no such extensive
concern for society, but from sympathy; and consequently
it is that principle which takes us so far out of ourselves as
to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters
of others, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or
loss.

The only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice
lies in this, that the good which results from the former rises
from every single act, and is the object of some natural
passion; whereas a single act of justice, considered in itself,
may often be contrary to the public good ; and it is only the
concurrence of mankind, in a general scheme or system of
action, which is advantageous. When I relieve persons in
distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so far as
my succour extends, so far have I promoted the happiness

276 Hume's Philosophical Works

of my fellow-creatures. But if we examine all the questions
that come before any tribunal of justice, we shall find that,
considering each case apart, it would as often be an instance
of humanity to decide contrary to the laws of justice as con-
formable to them. Judges take from a poor man to give to
a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the in-
dustrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means
of harming both themselves and others. The whole scheme,
however, of law and justice is advantageous to the society;
and it was with a view to this advantage that men, by their
voluntary conventions, established it. After it is once estab-
lished by these conventions, it is naturally attended with a
strong sentiment of morals, which can proceed from nothing
but our sympathy with the interests of society. We need no
other explication of that esteem which attends such of the
natural virtues as have a tendency to the public good.

I must further add, that there are several circumstances
which render this h>^othesis much more probable with
regard to the natural than the artificial virtues. It is certain
that the imagination is more affected by what is particular
than by what is general; and that the sentiments are always
moved with difficulty, where their objects are in any degree
loose and undetermined. Now, every particular act of justice
is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system;
and it may not perhaps be any individual person for whom
we are concerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the
whole society alike. On the contrary, every particular act
of generosity, or relief of the industrious and indigent, is
beneficial, and is beneficial to a particular person, who is not
undeserving of it. It is more natural, therefore, to think
that the tendencies of the latter virtue will aft'ect our senti-
ments, and command our approbation, than those of the
former; and therefore, since we find that the approbation of
the former arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with
better reason, the same cause to the approbation of the latter.
In any number of similar effects, if a cause can be discovered
for one, we ought to extend that cause to all the other effects
which can be accounted for by it; but much more, if these
other effects be attended with pecuHar circumstances, which
facilitate the operation of that cause.

Before I proceed further, I must observ^e two remarkable

Of Morals 277

circumstances in this affair, which may seem objections to
the present system. The first may be thus explained.
When any quality or character has a tendency to the good of
mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve of it, because
it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea affects us
by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this
sympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our senti-
ments of morals must admit of all the same variations. We
sympathise more with persons contiguous to us, than with
persons remote from us; with our acquaintance, than with
sti^angers; with our countrymen, than with foreigners. But
notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we give the
same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as
in England. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend
themselves equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator.
The s>Tnpathy varies without a variation in our esteem.
Our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from sympathy.

To this I answer, the approbation of moral qualities most
certainly is not derived from reason, or any comparison of
ideas; but proceeds entirely from a moral taste, and from
certain sentiments of pleasure or disgust, which arise upon
the contemplation and view of particular qualities or char-
acters. Now, it is evident that those sentiments, whencever
they are derived, must vary according to the distance or
contiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively
pleasure from the virtues of a person who lived in Greece
two thousand years ago, that I feel from the virtues of a
familiar friend and acquaintance. Yet I do not say that I
esteem the one more than the other; and therefore, if the
variation of the sentiment, without a variation of the esteem,
be an objection, it must have equal force against every other
system, as against that of sympathy. But to consider the
matter aright, it has no force at all; and it is the easiest
matter in the world to account for it. Our situation with
regard both to persons and things is in continual fluctuation;
and a man that lies at a distance from us may in a little
time become a familiar acquaintance. Besides, every parti-
cular man has a peculiar position with regard to others ; and
it is impossible we could ever converse together on any
reasonable terms, were each of us to consider characters and
persons only as they appear from his peculiar point of view.

278 Hume's Philosophical Works

In order, therefore, to prevent those continual contradictions,
and arrive at a more stable judgment of things, we fix on
some steady and general points of view, and ahvays, in our
thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever may be our
present situation. In like manner, external beauty is deter-
mined merely by pleasure; and it is evident a beautiful
countenance cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a
distance of twenty paces, as when it is brought nearer us.
We say not, however, that it appears to us less beautiful;
because we know what effect it will have in such a position,
and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance.

In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable,
according to our situation of nearness or remoteness with
regard to the person blamed or praised, and according to the
present disposition of our mind. But these variations we
regard not in our general decisions, but still apply the term_s
expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same manner as if
we remained in one point of view. Experience soon teaches
us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least of
correcting our language, where the sentiments are more
stubborn and unalterable. Our servant, if diligent and
faithful, may excite stronger sentiments of love and kindness
than Marcus Brutus, as represented in history; but we say
not, upon that account, that the former character is more
laudable than the latter. We know that, were we to approach
equally near to that renowned patriarch, he would command
a much higher degree of affection and admiration. Such
corrections are common with regard to all the senses; and
indeed it were impossible we could ever make use of language,
or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not
correct the momentary appearances of things, and overlook
our present situation.

It is therefore from the influence of characters and qualities
upon those who have an intercourse with any person, that
we blame or praise him. We consider not whether the persons
affected by the qualities be our acquaintance or strangers,
countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we overlook our own
interest in those general judgments, and blame not a man for
opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest
is particularly concerned. We make allowance for a certain
degree of selfishness in men, because we know it to be insepar-

Of Morals 279

able from human nature, and inherent in our frame and
constitution. By this reflection we correct those sentiments
of blame which so naturally arise upon any opposition.

But however the general principle of our blame or praise
may be corrected by those other principles, it is certain they
are not altogether efficacious, nor do our passions often
correspond entirely to the present theory. It is seldom
men heartily love what lies at a distance from them, and what
no way redounds to their particular benefit; as it is no less
rare to meet with persons who can pardon another any
opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable
that opposition may be by the general rules of morality.
Here we are contented with saying, that reason requires such
an impartial conduct, but that it is seldom we can bring our-
selves to it, and that our passions do not readily follow the
determination of our judgment. This language will be easily
understood, if we consider what we formerly said concerning
that reason which is able to oppose our passion, and which
we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination
of the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection.
When we form our judgments of persons merely from the
tendency of their characters to our own benefit, or to that of
our friends, we find so many contradictions to our sentiments
in society and conversation, and such an uncertainty from
the incessant changes of our situation, that we seek some
other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit
of so great variation. Being thus loosened from our first
station, we cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously
by any means as by a sympathy with those who have any
commerce with the person we consider. This is far from
being as lively as when our own interest is concerned, or that
of our particular friends ; nor has it such an influence on our
love and hatred ; but being equally conformable to our calm
and general principles, it is said to have an equal authority
over our reason, and to command our judgment and opinion.
We blame equally a bad action which we read of in history,
with one performed in our neighbourhood the other day;
the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection that
the former action would excite as strong sentiments of dis-
approbation as the latter, were it placed in the same
position.

280 Hume's Philosophical Works

I now proceed to the second remarkable circumstance
which I propose to take notice of. WTiere a person is
possessed of a character that in its natural tendency is
beneficial to society, we esteem him virtuous, and are delighted
with the view of his character, even though particular acci-
dents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from being
serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is
still virtue; and the love which it procures attends a man
into a dungeon or desert, where the virtue can no longer be
exerted in action, and is lost to all the world. Now, this may
be esteemed an objection to the present system. Sympathy
interests us in the good of mankind; and if sympathy were
the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of approba-
tion could only take place where the virtue actually attained
its end, and was beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its
end, it is only an imperfect means; and therefore can never
acquire any merit from that end. The goodness of an end
can bestow a merit on such means alone as are complete,
and actually produce the end.

To this we may reply, that where any object, in all its
parts, is fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally
gives us pleasure, and is esteemed beautiful, even though
some external circumstances be wanting to render it altogether
effectual. It is sufficient if everything be complete in the
object itself. A house that is contrived with great judgment
for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon that account;
though perhaps we are sensible that no one will ever dwell
in it. A fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a
reflection on the happiness which they would afford the
inhabitants, though at present the country be desert and
uninhabited. A man, whose limbs and shape promise strength
and activity, is esteemed handsome, though condemned
to perpetual imprisonment. The imagination has a set
of passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of
beauty much depend. These passions are moved by degrees
of liveliness and strength, which are inferior to belief, and
independent of the real existence of their objects. Where
a character is, in every respect, fitted to be beneficial to
society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to the
effect, without considering that there are still some circum-
stances wanting to render the cause a complete one. General

Of Morals 281

rules create a species of probability, which sometimes
influences the judgment, and always the imagination.

It is true, when the cause is complete, and a good dis-
position is attended with good fortune, which renders it really
beneficial to society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the
spectator, and is attended with a more lively sympathy.
We are more affected by it ; and yet we do not say that it is
more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know that
an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent dis-
position entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as
much as possible, the fortune from the disposition. The case
is the same as when we correct the different sentiments of
virtue, which proceed from its different distances from our-
selves. The passions do not always follow our corrections;
but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our abstract
notions, and are alone regarded when we pronounce in general
concerning the degrees of vice and virtue.

It is observed by critics, that all words or sentences which
are difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the
ear. There is no difference, whether a man hear them
pronounced, or read them silently to himself. When I
run over a book with my eye, I imagine I hear it all; and
also, by the force of imagination, enter into the uneasi-
ness which the delivery of it would give the speaker. The
uneasiness is not real; but, as such a composition of words
has a natural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to
affect the mind with a painful sentiment, and render the
discourse harsh and disagreeable. It is a similar case, where
any real quality is, by accidental circumstances, rendered
impotent, and is deprived of its natural influence on society.

Upon these principles we may easily remove any contradic-
tion which may appear to be betwixt the extensive sympathy,
on which our sentiments of virtue depend, and that limited
generosity, which I have frequently observed to be natural to
men, and which justice and property suppose, according to
the precedent reasoning. My sympathy with another may
give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when
any object is presented that has a tendency to give him
uneasiness; though I may not be willing to sacrifice any-
thing of my own interest, or cross any of my passions, for
his satisfaction, A house may displease me by being ill-

282 Hume's Philosophical Works

contrived for the convenience of the owner; and yet I may
refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. Senti-
ments must touch the heart to make them control our
passions : but they need not extend beyond the imagination,
to make them influence our taste. When a building seems
clums}'- and tottering to the eye, it is ugly and disagreeable;
though we may be fully assured of the solidity of the work-
manship. It is a kind of fear which causes this sentiment
of disapprobation ; but the passion is not the same with that
which we feel when obliged to stand under a wall that we
really think tottering and insecure. The seeming tendencies
of objects affect the mind: and the emotions they excite
are of a like species with those which proceed from the real
cmisequences of objects, but their feeling is different. Nay,
these emotions are so different in their feeling, that they may
often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when
the fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed
beautiful upon account of their strength, though we could
wish that they were entirely destroyed. The imagination
adheres to the general views of things, and distinguishes the
feelings they produce from those which arise from our
particular and momentary situation.

If we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made
of great men, we shall find that most of the qualities which
are attributed to them may be divided into two kinds, viz.
such as make them perform their part in society; and such
as render them serviceable to themselves, and enable them
to promote their own interest. Their prudence, temperance,
frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprise, dexterity, are cele-
brated, as well as their generosity and humanity. If we ever
give an indulgence to any quality that disables a man from
making a figure in life, it is to that of indolence, which is not
supposed to deprive one of his parts and capacity, but only
suspends their exercise; and that without any inconvenience
to the person himself, since it is, in some measure, from his
own choice. Yet indolence is always allowed to be a fault,
and a very great one, if extreme : nor do a man's friends ever
acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his
character in more material articles. He could make a figure,
say they, if he pleased to give application : his understanding
is sound, his conception quick, and his memory tenacious;

Of Morals 283

but he hates business, and is indifferent about his fortune.
And this a man sometimes may make even a subject of vanity,
though with the air of confessing a fault: because he may
think that this incapacity for business implies much more
noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste,
a delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. But
take any other case: suppose a quaUty that, without being
an indication of any other good qualities, incapacitates a man
always for business, and is destructive to his interest; such
as a blunderins; understanding, and a wrong judgment of
everything in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or a want
of address in the management of men and business : these are
all allowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men
would rather acknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it
suspected that they are in any degree subject to them.

It is very happy, in our philosophical researches, when
we find the same phenomenon diversified by a variety of
circumstances; and by discovering what is common among
them, can the better assure ourselves of the truth of any
hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. Were nothing
esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am
persuaded that the foregoing exphcation of the moral sense
ought still to be received, and that upon sufficient evidence :
but this evidence must grow upon us, when we find other
kinds of virtue which will not admit of any explication except
from that hypothesis. Here is a man who is not remarkably
defective in his social qualities; but what principally recom-
mends him is his dexterity in business, by which he has
extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted
the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence.
I find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his
company is a satisfaction to me; and before I have any
further acquaintance with him, I would rather do him a
service than another whose character is in every other respect
equal, but is deficient in that particular. In this case,
the qualities that please me are all considered as useful to the
person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest
and satisfaction. They are only regarded as means to an
end, and please me in proportion to their fitness for that end.
The end, therefore, must be agreeable to me. But what
makes the end agreeable? The person is a stranger: I

284 Hume's Philosophical Works

am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation
to him: his happiness concerns not me, further than the
happiness of every human, and indeed of every sensible
creature; that is, it affects me only by sympathy. From
that principle, whenever I discover his happiness and good,
\vhether in its causes or effects, I enter so deeply into it, that
it gives me a sensible emotion. The appearance of qualities
that have a tendency to promote it, have an agreeable effect
upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem.

This theory may serve to explain why the same qualities,
in all cases, produce both pride and love, humility and hatred;
and the same man is always virtuous or vicious, accomplished
or despicable to others, who is so to himself. A person in
whom we discover any passion or habit, which originally
is only incommodious to himself, becomes always disagreeable
to us merely on its account; as, on the other hand, one whose
character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can
never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that
disadvantage. Nor is this observable only with regard to
characters and manners, but may be remarked even in the
most minute circumstances. A violent cough in another
gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does not in the least
affect us. A man will be mortified if you tell him he has a
stinking breath; though it is evidently no annoyance to
himself. Our fancy easily changes its situation; and, either
surveying ourselves as we appear to others, or considering
others as they feel themselves, we enter, by that means, into
sentiments which no way belong to us, and in which nothing
but sympathy is able to interest us. And this sympathy
we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a
quality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others,
and makes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps
we never can have any interest in rendering ourselves agree-
able to them.

There have been many systems of morality advanced by
philosophers in all ages; but if they are strictly examined,
they may be reduced to two, which alone merit our attention.
]\Ioral good and evil are certainly distinguished by our
sentiments, not by reason: but these sentiments may arise
either from the mere species or appearance of characters and
passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the happi-

Of Morals 285

ness of mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is,
that both these causes are intermixed in our judgments
or morals; after the same manner as they are in our decisions
concerning most kinds of external beauty: though I am
also of opinion that reflections on the tendencies of actions
have by far the greatest influence, and determine all the great
lines of our duty. There are, however, instances in cases of
less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment
produces our approbation. Wit, and a certain easy and
disengaged behaviour, are qualities immediately agreeable
to others, and command their love and esteem. Some of
these qualities produce satisfaction in others by particular
original principles of human nature, which cannot be ac-
counted for: others may be resolved into principles which
are more general. This will best appear upon a particular
inquiry.

As some qualities acquire their merit from their being
immediately agreeable to others, without any tendency to
public interest; so some are denominated virtuous from
their being immediately agreeable to the person himself, who
possesses them. Each of the passions and operations of the
mind has a particular feeling, which must be either agreeable
or disagreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious.
This particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the
passions; and therefore needs not be accounted for.

But, however directlj^ the distinction of vice and virtue
may seem to flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness,
which particular qualities cause to ourselves or others, it is
easy to observe that it has also a considerable dependence
on the principle of sympathy so often insisted on. We approve
of a person who is possessed of qualities immediately agreeable
to those with whom he has any commerce, though perhaps we
ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. We also
approve of one who is possessed of qualities that are
immediately agreeable to himself, though they be of no service
to any mortal. To account for this, we must have recourse
to the foregoing principles.

Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis:
Every quality of the mind is denominated virtuous which
gives pleasure by the mere survey, as every quality which
produces pain is called vicious. This pleasure and this pain

286 Hume's Philosophical Works

may arise from four different sources. For we reap a pleasure
from the view of a character which is naturally fitted to be
useful to others^ or to the person himself, or which is agree-
able to others, or to the person himself. One may perhaps
be surprised that, amidst all these interests and pleasures,
we should forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every
other occasion. But we shall easily satisfy ourselves on
this head, when we consider, that every particular person's
pleasure and interest being different, it is impossible men
could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments, unless
they chose some common point of view, from which they
might survey their object, and which might cause it to appear
the same to all of them. Now, in judging of characters,
the only interest or pleasure which appears the same to every
spectator, is that of the person himself whose character is
examined, or that of persons who have a connection with
him. And, though such interests and pleasures touch us
more faintly than our own, yet, being more constant and
universal, they counterbalance the latter even in practice,
and are alone admitted in speculation as the standard of
virtue and morality. They alone produce that particular
feeling or sentiment on which moral distinctions depend.

As the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, it is an evident
consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness.
These sentiments produce love or hatred ; and love or hatred,
by the original constitution of human passion, is attended
with benevolence or anger; that is, with a desire of making
happy the person we love, and miserable the person we hate.
We have treated of this more fully on another occasion.

Of Morals 287

SECTION II

OF GREATNESS OF MIND

It may now be proper to illustrate this general system
of morals, by applying it to particular instances of virtue and
vice, and showing how their merit or demerit arises from
the four sources here explained. We shall begin with
examining the passions of pride and humility, and shall
consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just
proportion. An excessive pride or overweening conceit of
ourselves is always esteemed vicious, and is universally
hated, as modesty, or a just sense of our weakness, is esteemed
virtuous, and procures the good-will of every one. Of the
four sources of moral distinctions, this is to be ascribed to
the third; viz. the immediate agreeableness and disagree-
ableness of a quality, to others, without any reflections on
the tendency of that quality.

In order to prove this, we must have recourse to two
principles, which are very conspicuous in human nature.
The first of these is the sympathy and communication of
sentiments and passions above mentioned. So close and
intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner
any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his
opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or
lesser degree. And though, on many occasions, my sym-
pathy with him goes not so far as entirely to change my
sentiments and way of thinking, yet it seldom is so weak as
not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and give an
authority to that opinion which is recommended to me by
his assent and approbation. Nor is it any way material
upon what subject he and I employ our thoughts. Whether
we judge of an indifferent person, or of my own character,
my sympathy gives equal force to his decision: and even his
sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the
same light in which he regards himself.

This principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuat-
mg a nature, that it enters into most of our sentiments and

288 Hume's Philosophical Works

passions^ and often takes place under the appearance of
its contrary. For it is remarkable, that when a person
opposes me in anything which I am strongly bent upon, and
rouses up my passion by contradiction, I have always a
degree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion
proceed from any other origin. We may here observe
an evident conflict or rencounter of opposite principles and
passions. On the one side, there is that passion or sentiment
which is natural to me ; and it is observable that the stronger
this passion is, the greater is the commotion. There must
also be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and
this passion can proceed from nothing but sympathy. The
sentiments of others can never affect us, but by becoming
in some measure our own ; in which case they operate upon
us, by opposing and increasing our passions, in the very
same manner as if they had been originally derived from
our own temper and disposition. While they remain con-
cealed in the minds of others, they can never have any in-
fluence upon us : and even when they are known, if they went
no further than the imagination or conception, that faculty
is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that a
mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations,
would never alone be able to affect us.

The second principle I shall take notice of is that of com-
parison, or the variation of our judgments concerning objects,
according to the proportion they bear to those with which
we compare them. We judge more of objects by comparison
than by their intrinsic worth and value ; and regard every-
thing as mean, when set in opposition to what is superior
of the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than
that with ourselves; and hence it is that on all occasions
it takes place, and mixes with most of our passions. This
kind of comparison is directly contrary to sympathy in its
operation, as we have observed in treating of compassion
and malice} In all kinds of cojnpassion, an object makes
us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a
sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and
immediate survey. The direct survey of another's pleasure
naturally gives us pleasure ; and therefore produces pain,
when compared with our own. His pain, considered in itself,
1 Book II. Part II. Sect. 8

Of Morals 289

is painful ; but augments the idea of our ozvn happiness, and
gives us pleasure.

Since, then, those principles of sympathy, and a comparison
with ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while
to consider what general rules can be formed, besides the
particular temper of the person, for the prevalence of the one
or the other. Suppose I am now in safety at land, and would
willingly reap some pleasure from this consideration, I must
think on the miserable condition of those who are at sea in
a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as strong and
lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of my
own happiness. But whatever pains I may take, the com-
parison will never have an equal efficacy, as if T were really
on the shore,^ and saw a ship at a distance tossed by a tem-
pest, and in danger every moment of perishing on a rock or
sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become still more
lively. Suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that I
can perceive distinctly the horror painted on the countenances
of the seamen and passengers, hear their lamentable cries,
see the dearest friends give their last adieu, or embrace
with a resolution to perish in each other's arms: no man
has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from such a
spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compas-
sion and sympathy. It is evident, therefore, there is a
medium in this case; and that, if the idea be too faint, it has
no influence by comparison; and on the other hand, if it be
too strong, it operates on us entirely by sympathy, which is
the contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the conversion
of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and
vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison.

All this is easily applied to the present subject. We
sink very much in our own eyes when in the presence of a
great man, or one of a superior genius; and this humility
makes a considerable ingredient in that respect which we pay
our superiors, according to our foregoing reasonings on that
passion.^ Sometimes even envy and hatred arise from the

1 Suavi mari magno turbantibus aquora ventis
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem;
Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas,
Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cerene suav' est. — Lucret.

» Book II. Part II. Sect. lo.

II T

290 Hume's Philosophical Works

comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at
respect and esteem. As sjoiipathy has such a powerful
influence on the human mind, it causes pride to have in some
measure the same effect as merit; and, by making us enter
into those elevated sentiments which the proud man entertains
of himself, presents that comparison, which is so mortifying
and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely accom-
pany him in the flattering conceit in which he pleases himself;
but still is so shaken as to receive the idea it pi^esents, and
to give it an influence above the loose conceptions of the
imagination. A man who, in an idle humour, would form
a notion of a person of a merit very much superior to his own,
would not be mortified by that fiction: but when a man,
whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is
presented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary
degree of pride and self-conceit, the firm persuasion he has
of his own merit takes hold of the imagination, and
diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same manner as if he
were really possessed of all the good qualities which he so
literally attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely
in that medium which is requisite to make it operate on us
by comparison. Were it accompanied with belief, and did
the person appear to have the same merit which he assumes
to himself, it would have a contrary effect, and would operate
on us by sympathy. The influence of that principle would
then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to what
happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions.
The necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride,
or an overweening conceit of ourselves, must be vicious;
since it causes uneasiness in all men, and presents them
every moment with a disagreeable comparison. It is a trite
obser\'ation in philosophy, and even in common life and
conversation, that it is our own pride, which makes us so much
displeased with the pride of other people; and that vanity
becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain.
The gay naturally associate themselves with the gay, and the
amorous with the amorous : but the proud never can endure
the proud, and rather seek the company of those who are of
an opposite disposition. As we are all of us proud in some
degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned by all
mankind, as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in

Of Morals 291

others by means of comparison. And this effect must foUovr
the more naturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded
conceit of themselves, are for ever making those comparisons ;
nor have they any other method of supporting their vanity.
A man of sense and merit is pleased with himself, independent
of all foreign considerations; but a fool must always find
some person that is more foolish, in order to keep himself in
good humour with his own parts and understanding.

But though an overweening conceit of our own merit be
vicious and disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable than
to have a value for ourselves, where we really have qualities
that are valuable. The utility and advantage of any quality
to ourselves is a source of virtue, as well as its agreeableness
to others ; and it is certain that nothing is more useful to us,
in the conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which makes
us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a confidence and
assurance in all our projects and enterprises. Whatever
capacity any one may be endowed with, it is entirely useless
to him, if he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs
suitable to it. It is requisite on all occasions to know our own
force ; and were it allowable to err on either side, it would be
more advantageous to overrate our merit, than to form ideas
of it below its just standard. Fortune commonly favours
the bold and enterprising; and nothing inspires us with more
boldness than a good opinion of ourselves.

Add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be some-
times disagreeable to others, it is always agreeable to our-
selves ; as, on the other hand, modesty, though it give pleasure
to every one who observes it, produces often uneasiness in
the person endowed with it. Now, it has been observed, that
our own sensations determine the vice and virtue of any
quality, as well as those sensations which it may excite in
others.

Thus, self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allow-
able, but requisite in a character. It is however certain that
good-breeding and decency require that we should avoid all
signs and expressions which tend directly to show that
passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful partiality for our-
selves, and were we always to give vent to our sentiments in
this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest in-
dignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence

292 Hume's Philosophical Works

of so disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the
contrariety of our judgments. In like manner, therefore, as
we establish the lazvs of nature, in order to secure property
in society, and prevent the opposition of self-interest, we
establish the rules of good-breeding, in order to prevent the
opposition of men's pride, and render conversation agreeable
and inoffensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than a man's
overweening conceit of himself. Every one almost has a
strong propensity to this vice. No one can well distinguish
in himself betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain that his
esteem of his own merit is well founded ; for these reasons, all
direct expressions of this passion are condemned; nor do we
make any exception to this rule in favour of men of sense and
merit. They are not allowed to do themselves justice openly
in words, no more than other people ; and even if they show
a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice in their
own thoughts, they will be more applauded. That imperti-
nent, and almost universal propensity of men, to overvalue
themselves, has given us such a prejudice against self-applause,
that we are apt to condemn it by a general rule wherever we
meet with it; and it is with some difficulty we give a privilege
to men of sense, even in their most secret thoughts. At least,
it must be owned that some disguise in this particular is
absolutely requisite; and that, if we harbour pride in our
breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appear-
ance of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and
behaviour. We must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer
others to ourselves ; to treat them with a kind of deference,
even though they be our equals; to seem always the lowest
and least in the company, where we are not very much dis-
tinguished above them ; and if we observe these rules in our
conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret senti-
ments, when we discover them in an oblique manner.

I believe no one who has any practice of the world, and can
penetrate into the inward sentiments of men, will assert that
the humility which good-breeding and decency require of us,
goes beyond the outside, or that a thorough sincerity in this
particular is esteemed a real part of our duty. On the con-
trary, we may observe, that a genuine and hearty pride, or
self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is essential to
the character of a man of honour, and that there is no quality

Of Morals 293

of the mind which is more indispensably requisite to procure
the esteem and approbation of mankind. There are certain
deferences and mutual submissions which custom requires
of the different ranks of men towards each other; and who-
ever exceeds in this particular, if through interest, is accused
of meanness, if through ignorance, of simplicity. It is neces-
sary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world,
whether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments,
talents, or reputation. It is necessary to feel the sentiment
and passion of pride in conformity to it, and to regulate our
actions accordingly. And should it be said that prudence
may sufhce to regulate our actions in this particular, without
any real pride, I would observe, that here the object of
prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and
custom ; and that it is impossible those tacit airs of superiority
should ever have been established and authorised by custom,
unless men were generally proud, and unless that passion were
generally approved, when well grounded.

If we pass from common life and conversation to history,
this reasoning acquires new force, when we observe that all
those great actions and sentiments which have become the
admiration of mankind, are founded on nothing but pride
and self-esteem. " Go," says Alexander the Great to his
soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the Indies, " go
tell your countrymen, that you left Alexander completing the
conquest of the world." This passage was always parti-
cularly admired by the prince of Conde, as we learn from
St. Evremond. " Alexander," said that prince, " abandoned
by his soldiers, among barbarians not yet fully subdued, felt
in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could
not believe it possible any one could refuse to obey him.
Whether in Europe or in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, all
was indifferent to him; wherever he found men, he fancied
he had found subjects."

In general we may observe, that whatever we call heroic
virtue, and admire under the character of greatness and
elevation of mind, is either nothing but a steady and well-
established pride and self-esteem, or partakes largely of that
passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition, love of glory,
magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that kind,
have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and

294 Hume's Philosophical Works

derive a great part of their merit from that origin. Accord-
ingly we find that many rehgious declaimers decry those
virtues as purely pagan and natural, and represent to us the
excellency of the Christian religion, which places humility
in the rank of virtues, and corrects the judgment of the world,
and even of philosophers, who so generally admire all the
efforts of pride and ambition. Whether this virtue of
humility has been rightly understood, I shall not pretend to
determine. I am content with the concession, that the
world naturally esteems a well-regulated pride, which secretly
animates our conduct, without breaking out into such
indecent expressions of vanity as may offend the vanity of
others.

The merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two cir-
cumstances, viz. its utility and its agreeableness to ourselves;
by which it capacitates us for business, and at the same time
gives us an immediate satisfaction. When it goes bej^ond
its just bounds, it loses the first advantage, and even becomes
prejudicial; which is the reason why we condemn an ex-
travagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the
decorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as such a
passion is still agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime
sensation to the person who is actuated by it, the sympathy
with that satisfaction diminishes considerably the blame
which naturally attends its dangerous influence on our con-
duct and behaviour. Accordingly, we may observe that aji
excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it
displays itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a
great measure to the character of a hero, and will render a
person the admiration of posterity, at the same time that it
ruins his affairs, and leads him into dangers and difficulties
with which otherwise he would never have been acquainted.

Heroism, or militaryglory, is much admired by the generality
of mankind. They consider it as the most sublime kind of
merit. Men of cool reflection are not so sanguine in their
praises of it. The infinite confusions and disorder which it
has caused in the world, diminish much of its merit in their
eyes. When they would oppose the popular notions on this
head, they always paint out the evils which this supposed
virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of
empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. As

Of Morals 295

long as these are present to us^ we are more inclined to hate
than admire the ambition of heroes. But when we fix our
view on the person himself, who is the author of all this
mischief, there is something so dazzling in his character, the
mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind, that we cannot
refuse it our admiration. The pain which we receive from
its tendency to the prejudice of society, is overpowered by a
stronger and more immediate sympathy.

Thus, our explication of the merit or demerit which attends
the degrees of pride or self esteem, may serve as a strong
argument for the preceding hypothesis, by showing the
effects of those principles above explained in all the varia-
tions of our judgments concerning that passion. Nor will
this reasoning be advantageous to us only by showing that
the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the/owrprinciples
of the advantage and of the pleasure of the person himself and
of others, but may also afford us a strong proof of some under
parts of that hypothesis.

No one who duly considers of this matter will make any
scruple of allowing that any piece of ill-breeding, or any
expression of pride and haughtiness, is displeasing to us,
merely because it shocks our own pride, and leads us by
sympathy into a comparison which causes the disagreeable
passion of humihty. Now, as an insolence of this kind is
blamed even in a person who has always been civil to our-
selves in particular, nay, in one whose name is only known
to us in history, it follows that our disapprobation proceeds
from a sympathy with others, and from the reflection that
such a character is highly displeasing and odious to every
one who converses or has any intercourse with the person
possessed of it. We sympathise with those people in their
uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a
sympathy with the person who insults them, we may here
observe a double rebound of the sympathy, which is a
principle very similar to what we have observed on another

occasion.^

1 Book II. Part II. Sect. 5.

296 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION III

OF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE

Having thus explained the origin of that praise and approba-
tion which attends everything we call great in human affec-
tions, we now proceed to give an account of their goodness,
and show whence its merit is derived.

When experience has once given us a competent know-
ledge of human affairs, and has taught us the proportion they
bear to human passion, we perceive that the generosity of
men is very limited, and that it seldom extends beyond their
friends and family, or, at most, beyond their native country.
Being thus acquainted with the nature of man, we expect
not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to
that narrow circle in which any person moves, in order to
form a judgment of his moral character. When the natural
tendency of his passions leads him to be serviceable and
useful within his sphere, we approve of his character, and
love his person, by a s}Tiipathy with the sentiments of those
who have a more particular connection with him. We are
quickly obliged to forget our own interest in our judgments
of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions we
meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are
not placed in the same situation, and have not the same
interest with ourselves. The only point of view in which
our sentiments concur with those of others, is when we con-
sider the tendency of any passion to the advantage or harm
of those who have any immediate connection or intercourse
with the person possessed of it. And though this advantage
or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes
it is very near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy.
This concern we readily extend to other cases that are
resembling; and when these are very remote, our sympathy
is proportionably weaker, and our praise or blame fainter
and more doubtful. The case is here the same as in our
judgments concerning external bodies. All objects seem to
diminish by their distance; but though the appearance of

Of Morals 297

objects to our senses be the original standard by which we
judge of them, yet we do not say that they actually diminish
by the distance; but, correcting the appearance by reflec-
tion, arrive at a more constant and established judgment
concerning them. In like manner, though sympathy be
much fainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy
with persons remote from us much fainter than that with
persons near and contiguous, yet we neglect all these differ-
ences in our calm judgments concerning the characters of
men. Besides that we ourselves often change our situation
in this particular, we every day meet with persons who' are
in a different situation from ourselves, and who could never
converse with us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain
constantly in that situation and point of view which is
peculiar to us.

The intercourse of sentiments, therefore, in society and
conversation, makes us form some general unalterable
standard by which we may approve or disapprove of char-
acters and manners. And though the heart does not always
take part with those general notions, or regulate its love and
hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and
serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on the
theatre, and in the schools.

From these principles, we may easily account for that
merit which is commonly ascribed to generosity, humanity,
compassion, gratitude, friendship, -fidelity, zeal, disinterested-
ness, liberality, and all those other qualities which form the
character of good and benevolent. A propensity to the
tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful in all the
parts of life, and gives a just direction to all his other qualities,
which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage
and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit
only to make a tyrant and public robber. It is the same case
with judgment and capacity, and all the quahties of that
kind. They are indifferent in themselves to the interests of
society, and have a tendency to the good or ill of mankind,
according as they are directed by these other passions.

As love is immediately agreeable to the person who is
actuated by it, and hatred immediately disagreeable, this may
also be a considerable reason why we praise all the passions
that partake of the former, and blame all those that have

298 Hume's Philosophical Works

any considerable share of the latter. It is certain we are
infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as well as with a
great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at the con-
ception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same
tenderness towards the person who exerts it. All this seems
to me a proof that our approbation has, in these cases, an
origin different from the prospect of utility and advantage,
either to ourselves or others. To which we may add, that
men naturally, without reflection, approve of that character
which is most like their own. The man of a mild disposition
and tender affections, in forming a notion of the most perfect
virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity than
the man of courage and enterprise, who naturally looks upon
a certain elevation of the mind as the most accomplished
character. This must evidently proceed from an immediate
sympathy, which men have with characters similar to their
own. They enter with more warmth into such sentiments,
and feel more sensibly the pleasure which arises from them.

It is remarkable that nothing touches a man of humanity
more than any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or
friendship, where a person is attentive to the smallest concenis
of his friend, and is willing to sacrifice to them the most con-
siderable interest of his own. Such delicacies have little
influence on society; because they make us regard the
greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging the more
minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit
in any one who is capable of them. The passions are so
contagious, that they pass with the greatest facility from one
person to another, and produce correspondent movements in
all human breasts. Where friendship appears in very signal
instances, my heart catches the same passion, and is warmed
by those warm sentiments that display themselves before me.
Such agreeable movements must give me an affection to
every one that excites them. This is the case with every-
thing that is agreeable in any person. The transition from
pleasure to love is easy : but the transition must here be still
more easy; since the agreeable sentiment which is excited
by sympathy is love itself; and there is nothing required
but to change the object.

Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes
and appearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous

Of Morals 299

and amiable; and a person, whose grief upon the loss of a
friend were excessive, would be esteemed upon that account.
His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does a pleasure, on his
melancholy.

We are not, however, to imagine that all the angry passions
are vicious, though they are disagreeable. There is a certain
indulgence due to human nature in this respect. Anger and
hatred are passions inherent in our very frame and constitu-
tion. The want of them, on some occasions, may even be a
proof of weakness and imbecility. And where they appear
only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they
are natural, but even bestow our applauses on them, because
they are inferior to what appears in the greatest part of
mankind.

■\^^lere these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form
the most detested of all vices. All the pity and concern
which we have for the miserable sufferers by this vice, turns
against the person guilty of it, and produces a stronger
hatred than we are sensible of on any other occasion.

Even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme
degree, our sentiments concerning it are very much in-
fluenced by reflections on the harm that results from it.
And we may observe in general, that if we can find any
quality in a person, which renders him incommodious to
those who live and converse with him, we always allow it to
be a fault or blemish, without any further examination. On
the other hand, when we enumerate the good qualities of any
person, we always mention those parts of his character which
render him a safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle master,
an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. We consider
him with all his relations in society ; and love or hate him
according as he affects those who have any immediate inter-
course with him. And it is a most certain rule, that if there
be no relation of life in which I could not wish to stand to a
particular person, his character must so far be allowed to be
perfect. If he be as little wanting to himself as to others,
his character is entirely perfect. This is the ultimate test of
merit and virtue.

300 Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION IV

OF NATURAL ABILITIES

No distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics than
that betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues ; where
the former are placed on the same footing with bodily
endowments, and are supposed to have no merit or moral
worth annexed to them. Whoever considers the matter
accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would be
merely a dispute of words, and that, though these qualities
are not altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the
most material circumstances. They are both of them equally
mental qualities : and both of them equally produce pleasure;
and have of course an equal tendency to procure the love and
esteem of mankind. There are few who are not as jealous of
their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to
honour and courage; and much more than with regard to
temperance and sobriety. Men are even afraid of passing
for good-natured, lest that should be taken for want of under-
standing; and often boast of more debauches than they have
been really engaged in, to give themselves airs of fire and
spirit. In short, the figure a man makes in the world, the
reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him by
his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as
much upon his good sense and judgment, as upon any other
part of his character. Let a man have the best intentions in
the world, and be the furthest from all injustice and violence,
he will never be able to make himself be much regarded,
without a moderate share, at least, of parts and understand-
ing. Since then natural abilities, though perhaps inferior,
yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and
effects, with those qualities which we call moral virtues, why
should we make any distinction betwixt them ?

Though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues,
we must allow that they procure the love and esteem of
mankind; that they give a new lustre to the other virtues;
and that a man possessed of them is much more entitled to
our good-will and serv^ices than one entirely void of them.

Of Morals 301

It may indeed be pretended, that the sentiment of approba-
tion which those quahties produce, besides its being inferior,
is also somewhat different from that which attends the other
virtues. But this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason
for excluding them from the catalogue of virtues. Each of
the virtues, even benevolence, justice, gratitude, integrity,
excites a different sentiment or feeling in the spectator.
The characters of Caesar and Cato, as drawn by Sallust, are
both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word, but
in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same
which arise from them. The one produces love, the other
esteem; the one is amiable, the other awful: we could wish
to meet with the one character in a friend, the other char-
acter we would be ambitious of in ourselves. In like manner,
the approbation which attends natural abilities, may be
somewhat different to the feeling from that which arises
from the other virtues, without making them entirely of a
different species. And indeed we may observe, that the
natural abilities, no more than the other virtues, produce
not, all of them, the same kind of approbation. Good sense
and genius beget esteem; wit and humour excite love.^

Those who represent the distinction betwixt natural
abilities and moral virtues as very material, may say, that
the former are entirely involuntary, and have therefore no
merit attending them, as having no dependence on liberty
and free will. But to this I answer, first, That many of those
qualities which all moralists, especially the ancients, compre-
hend under the title of moral virtues, are equally involuntary
and necessary with the qualities of the judgment and imagina-
tion. Of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity;
and, in short, all the qualities which form the great man. I
might say the same, in some degree, of the others; it being
almost impossible for the mind to change its character in
any considerable article, or cure itself of a passionate or
splenetic temper, when they are natural to it. The greater

^ Love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and arise
from hke causes. The qualities that produce both are agreeable, and
give pleasure. But where this pleasure is severe and serious ; or where
its object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces
any degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the passion which
arises from the pleasure is more properly denominated esteem than
love. Benevolence attends both; but is connected with love in a
more eminent degree.

302 Hume's Philosophical Works

degree there is of these blamable quaHties, the more vicious
they become^ and yet they are the less voluntar}'. Secondly,
I would have any one give me a reason, why virtue and vice
may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity.
These moral distinctions arise from the natural distinctions
of pain and pleasure; and when we receive those feelings
from the general consideration of any quality or character, we
denominate it vicious or virtuous. Now I believe no one will
assert, that a quality can never produce pleasure or pain to
the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly voluntary
in the person who possesses it. Thirdly, As to free will, we
have showTi that it has no place with regard to the actions, no
more than the qualities of men. It is not a just consequence,
that what is voluntary is free. Our actions are more volun-
tary than our judgments; but we have not more liberty in
the one than in the other.

But though this distinction betwixt voluntar)' and involun-
tary be not sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt
natural abilities and moral virtues, yet the former distinction
will afTord us a plausible reason why moralists have invented
the latter. Men have observed, that, though natural abihties
and moral qualities be in the main on the same footing, there
is, however, this difference betwLxt them, that the former are
almost invariable by any art or industry; while the latter, or
at least the actions that proceed from them, may be changed
by the motives of rewards and punishment, praise and blame.
Hence legislators and divines and moralists have principally
applied themselves to the regulating these voluntary actions,
and have endeavoured to produce additional motives for being
virtuous in that particular. They knew, that to punish a
man for folly, or exhort him to be prudent and sagacious,
would have but little effect; though the same punishments
and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice, might
have a considerable influence. But as men, in common life
and conversation, do not carry those ends in view, but
naturally praise or blame whatever pleases or displeases them,
they do not seem much to regard this distinction, but con-
sider prudence under the character of virtue as well as bene-
volence, and penetration as well as justice. Nay, we find
that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a
strict adherence to a system, enter into the same wav of think-

Of Morals 303

ing; and that the ancient moralists, in particular, made no
scruple of placing prudence at the head of the cardinal virtues.
There is a sentiment of esteem and approbation, which may
be excited, in some degree, by any faculty of the mind, in its
perfect state and condition; and to account for this senti-
ment is the business of philosophers. It belongs to gram-
marians to examine what qualities are entitled to the de-
nomination of virtue ; nor will they find, upon trial, that this
is so easy a task as at first sight they may be apt to imagine.

The principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed,
is because of their tendency to be useful to the person who is
possessed of them. It is impossible to execute any design
with success, where it is not conducted with prudence and
discretion; nor will the goodness of our intentions alone
suffice to procure us a happy issue to our enterprises. Men
are superior to beasts principally by the superiority of their
reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty which
set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another.
All the advantages of art are owing to human reason ; and
where fortune is not very capricious, the most considerable
part of these advantages must fall to the share of the prudent
and sagacious.

When it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension
be most valuable ? whether one, that at first view penetrates
into a subject, but can perform nothing upon study; or a
contrary character, which must work out everything by dint
of application ? whether a clear head, or a copious invention ?
whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment.'* in short,
what character, or pecuHar understanding, is more excellent
than another? It is evident we can answer none of these
questions, without considering which of those qualities
capacitates a man best for the world, and carries him furthest
in any of his undertakings.

There are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit
is derived from the same origin. Industry, perseverance,
patience, activity, vigilance, application, constancy, with other
virtues of that kind, which it will be easy to recollect, are
esteemed valuable upon no other account than their advan-
tage in the conduct of life. It is the same case with temper-
ance, frugality, economy, resolution ; as, on the other hand,
prodigality , luxury, irresolution, uncertainty, are vicious.

304 Hume's Philosophical Works

merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us
for business and action.

As wisdom and good sense are valued because they are
iisefid to the person possessed of them, so wit and eloquence
are valued because they are immediately agreeable to others.
On the other hand, good humour is loved and esteemed,
because it is immediately agreeable to the person himself. It
is evident that the conversation of a man of wit is very satis-
factory; as a cheerful good-humoured companion diffuses
a joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his
gaiety. These qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they
naturally beget love and esteem, and answer to all the char-
acters of virtue.

It is difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that
renders one man's conversation so agreeable and entertain-
ing, and another's so insipid and distasteful. As conversation
is a transcript of the mind as well as books, the same qualities
which render the one valuable must give us an esteem for the
other. This we shall consider afterwards. In the meantime,
it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit a man may
derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very
considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys
to those who are present.

"'In this view, cleanliness is also to be regarded as a virtue,
since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very
considerable source of love and affection. No one will deny
that a negligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults
are nothing but smaller vices, and this fault can have no
other origin than the uneasy sensations which it excites in
others, we may in this instance, seemingly so trivial, clearly
discover the origin of the moral distinction of vice and virtue
in other instances.

Besides all those qualities which render a person lovely or
valuable, there is also a certain je-ne-s(ai-quoi of agreeable
and handsome that concurs to the same effect. In this case,
as well as in that of wit and eloquence, we must have recourse
to a certain sense, which acts without reflection, and regards
not the tendencies of qualities and characters. Some
moralists account for all the sentiments of virtue by this sense.
Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but a particular
inquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis.

Of Morals 305

When we find that almost all the virtues have such particular
tendencies, and also find that these tendencies are sufficient
alone to give a strong sentiment of approbation, we cannot
doubt, after this, that qualities are approved of in proportion
to the advantage which results from them.

The decorum or indecorum of a quality, with regard to the
age, or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or
blame. This decorum depends in a great measure upon
experience. It is usual to see men lose their levity as they
advance in years. Such a degree of gravity, therefore, and
such years, are connected together in our thoughts. When
we observe them separated in any person's character, this
imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is dis-
agreeable.

That faculty of the soul which, of all others, is of the least
consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or
vice in its several degrees, at the same time that it admits
of a great variety of degrees, is the memory. Unless it rise
up to that stupendous height as to surprise us, or sink so low
as in some measure to affect the judgment, we commonly
take no notice of its variations, nor ever mention them to the
praise or dispraise of any person. It is so far from being a
virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect to
complain of a bad one; and, endeavouring to persuade the
world that what they say is entirely of their own invention,
sacrifice it to the praise of genius and judgment. Yet, to
consider the matter abstractedly, it would be difficult to give
a reason why the faculty of recalling past ideas with truth
and clearness, should not have as much merit in it as the
faculty of placing our present ideas in such an order as to
form true propositions and opinions. The reason of the
difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted
without any sensation of pleasure or pain, and in all its
middling degrees serves almost equally well in business and
affairs. But the least variations in the judgment are sensibly
felt in their consequences; while at the same time that
faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree, without an
extraordinary dehght and satisfaction. The sympathy with
this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understand-
ing; and the absence of it makes us consider the memory
as a faculty very indifferent to blame or praise.

II U

306 Hume's Philosophical Works

Before I leave this subject of natural abilities, I must
observe, that perhaps one source of the esteem and affection
which attends them, is derived from the importance and
weight which they bestow on the person possessed of them.
He becomes of greater consequence in Ufe. His resolutions
and actions affect a greater number of his fellow-creatures.
Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And it is
easy to observe that whoever is elevated, after this manner,
above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments
of esteem and approbation. Whatever is important engages
our attention, fixes our thought, and is contemplated with
satisfaction. The histories of kingdoms are more interesting
than domestic stories; the histories of great empires more
than those of small cities and principaHties; and the histories
of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and order.
We sympathise with the persons that suffer, in all the various
sentiments which belong to their fortunes. The mind is
occupied by the multitude of the objects, and by the strong
passions that display themselves. And this occupation or
agitation of the mind is commonly agreeable and amusing.
The same theory accounts for the esteem and regard we pay
to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. The good and
ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. 'Whatever
they undertake is important, and challenges our attention.
Nothing is to be overlooked and despised that regards them.
And where any person can excite these sentiments, he soon
acquires our esteem, unless other circumstances of his char-
acter render him odious and disagreeable.

SECTION V

SOME FURTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL

VIRTUES

It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that pride
and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advan-
tages or disad^•antages of the mind, body, or fortune ; and
that these advantages or disadvantages have that effect by
producing a separate impression of pain or pleasure. The

Of Morals 307

pain or pleasure which arises from the general survey or view
of any action or quality of the mind, constitutes its vice or
virtue, and gives rise to our approbation or blame, which is
nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love or hatred.
We have assigned four different sources of this pain and
pleasure; and, in order to justify more fully that hypothesis,
it may here be proper to observe, that the advantages or dis-
advantages of the body, and of fortune, produce a pain or
pleasure from the very same principles. The tendency of
any object to be usefid to the person possessed of it, or to
others; to convey -pleasure to him or to others; all these
circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the person
who considers the object, and command his love and appro-
bation.

To begin with the advantages of the body ; we may observe
a phenomenon which might appear somewhat trivial and
ludicrous, if anything could be trivial which fortified a con-
clusion of such importance, or ludicrous, which was employed
in a philosophical reasoning. It is a general remark, that
those we call good moments men, vv-ho have either signalised
themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body
promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well
received by the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections
even of those whose virtue prevents any design of ever giving
employment to those talents. Here it is evident that the
ability of such a person to give enjoyment, is the real source
of that love and esteem he meets with among the females ; at
the same time that the women who love and esteem him have
no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can
only be affected by means of their sympathy with one that
has a commerce of love with him. This instance is singular,
and merits our attention.

Another source of the pleasure we receive from consider-
ing bodily advantages, is their utility to the person himself
who is possessed of them. It is certain, that a considerable
part of the beauty of men, as well as of other animals, consists
in such a conformation of members as we find by experience
to be attended with strength and agility, and to capacitate the
creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders, a lank
belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our
species, because they are signs of force and vigour, which,

308 Hume's Philosophical Works

being advantages we naturally sympathise with, they convey
to the beholder a share of that satisfaction they produce in
the possessor.

So far as to the utility which may attend any quality of the
body. As to the immediate pleasure, it is certain that an air
of health, as well as of strength and agility, makes a con-
siderable part of beauty; and that a sickly air in another is
always disagreeable, upon account of that idea of pain and
uneasiness which it conveys to us. On the other hand, we
are pleased with the regularity of our own features, though it
be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and it is necessary
for us in some measure to set ourselves at a distance, to make
it convey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider
ourselves as we appear in the eyes of others, and S}'Tnpathise
with the advantageous sentiments they entertain with regard
to us.

How far the advantages of fortune produce esteem and
approbation from the same principles, we may satisfy our-
selves by reflecting on our precedent reasoning on that subject.
We have observed, that our approbation of those who are
possessed of the advantages of fortune, may be ascribed to
three different causes. First, To that immediate pleasure
which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful clothes,
equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses. Secotidly,
To the advantage which we hope to reap from him by his
generosity and liberality. Thirdly, To the pleasure and
advantage which he himself reaps from his possessions, and
which produce an agreeable sympathy in us. Whether we
ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or all of these
causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles which
give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. I believe most
people, at first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem
of the rich to self-interest and the prospect of advantage.
But as it is certain that our esteem or deference extends
beyond any prospect of advantage to ourselves, it is evident
that that sentiment must proceed from a sympathy with
those who are dependent on the person we esteem and respect,
and who have an immediate connection with him. We con-
sider him as a person capable of contributing to the happiness
or enjoyment of his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments with
regard to him we naturally embrace. And this consideration

Of Morals 309

will serve to justify my hypothesis in preferring the third
principle to the other two, and ascribing our esteem of the
rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage which
they themselves receive from their possessions. For as even
the other two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or
account for all the phenomena without having recourse to a
sympathy of one kind or other, it is much more natural to
choose that sympathy which is immediate and direct, than
that which is remote and indirect. To which we may add,
that where the riches or power are very great, and render the
person considerable and important in the world, the esteem
attending them may in part be ascribed to another source,
distinct from these three, viz. their interesting the mind by
a prospect of the multitude and importance of their conse-
quences ; though, in order to account for the operation of this
principle, we must also have recourse to sympathy, as we
have observed in the preceding section.

It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the
flexibility of our sentiments, and the several changes they
so readily receive from the objects with which they are con-
joined. All the sentiments of approbation which attend any
particular species of objects, have a great resemblance to
each other, though derived from different sources; and, on
the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different
objects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the
same source. Thus, the beauty of all visible objects causes
a pleasure pretty much the same, though it be sometimes
derived from the mere species and appearance of the objects;
sometimes from sympathy, and an idea of their utility. In
like manner, whenever we survey the actions and characters
of men, without any particular interest in them, the pleasure
or pain which arises from the survey (with some minute differ-
ences) is in the main of the same kind, though perhaps there
be a great diversity in the causes from which it is derived. On
the other hand, a convenient house and a virtuous character
cause not the same feeling of approbation, even though the
source of our approbation be the same, and flow from sym-
pathy and an idea of their utility. There is something very
ipexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but it is what
we have experience of with regard to all our passions and
sentiments.

3IO Hume's Philosophical Works

SECTION VI

CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK

Thus, upon the whole, I am hopeful that nothing is wanting
to an accurate proof of this system of ethics. We are certain
that sympathy is a very powerful principle in human nature.
We are also certain that it has a great influence on our sense
of beauty, when we regard external objects, as well as when
we judge of morals. We find that it has force sufficient to
give us the strongest sentiments of approbation, when it
operates alone, without the concurrence of any other prin-
ciple; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and good
manners. We may observe, that all the circumstances
requisite for its operation are found in most of the virtues,
which have, for the most part, a tendency to the good of
society, or to that of the person possessed of them. If we
compare all these circumstances, we shall not doubt that
sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions ; especially
when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against this
hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases.
Justice is certainly approved of, for no other reason than
because it has a tendency to the pubUc good; and the public
good is indifferent to us, except so far as s}-mpathy interests
us in it. We may presume the like with regard to all the
other virtues, which have a like tendency to the public good.
They must derive all their merit from our sympathy with
those who reap any advantage from them; as the virtues,
which have a tendency to the good of the person possessed of
them, derive their merit from our sympathy with him.

Most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities
of the mind are virtuous, because of their utihty. This way
of thinking is so natural, and occurs on so many occasions,
that few will make any scruple of admitting it. Now, this
being once admitted, the force of sympathy must necessarily
be acknowledged. Virtue is considered as means to an end.
Means to an end are only valued so far as the end is valued.
But the happiness of strangers affects us by s}Tiipathy alone.
To that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment

Of Morals 311

of approbation which arises from the survey of all those
virtues that are useful to society, or to the person possessed
of them. These form the most considerable part of morality.

Were it proper, in such a subject, to bribe the reader's
assent, or employ anything but solid argument, we are here
abundantly supplied with topics to engage the affections.
All lovers of virtue (and such we all are in speculation, how-
ever we may degenerate in practice) must certainly be pleased
to see Tioral distinctions derived from so noble a source, which
gives as a just notion both of the generosity and capacity of
human nature. It requires but very little knowledge of
human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle
inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters
into the composition. But this sense must certainly acquire
new force when, reflecting on itself, it approves of those prin-
ciples from whence it is derived, and finds nothing but what
s great and good in its rise and origin. Those who resolve
the sense of morals into original instincts of the human mind,
may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient authority, but
want the advantage which those possess who account for that
sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. According
to their system, not only virtue must be approved of, but also
the sense of virtue: and not only that sense, but also the
principles from whence it is derived. So that nothing is
presented on any side but what is laudable and good.

This observation may be extended to justice, and the other
virtues of that kind. Though justice be artificial, the sense
of its morality is natural. It is the combination of men in a
system of conduct, which renders any act of justice beneficial
to society. But when once it has that tendency, we naturally
approve of it; and if we did not so, it is impossible any
combination or convention could ever produce that sentiment.

Most of the inventions of men are subject to change.
They depend upon humour and caprice. They have a vogue
for a time, and then sink into oblivion. It may perhaps be
apprehended, that if justice were allowed to be of human
invention, it must be placed on the same footing. But the
cases are widely different. The interest on which justice is
founded is the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times
and places. It cannot possibly be served by any other
invention. It is obvious, and discovers itself on the very first

3 I 2 Hume's Philosophical Works

formation of society. All these causes render the rules of
justice steadfast and immutable; at least, as immutable a:-
human nature. And if they were founded on original instincts,
could they have any greater stability?

The same system may help us to form a just notion of the
happiness, as well as of the dignity of virtue, and may interest
every principle of our nature in the embracing and cherishing
that noble quality. Who indeed does not feel an accession
of alacrity in his pursuits of knowledge and ability of every
kind, when he considers that, besides the advantages vhich
immediately result from these acquisitions, they also give him
a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally
attended with esteem and approbation ? And who can tKink
any advantage of fortune a sufficient compensation for the
least breach of the social virtues, when he considers that not
only his character with regard to others, but also his peace
and inward satisfaction entirely depend upon his strict
observance of them; and that a mind will never be able to
bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its parts to
mankind and society? But I forbear insisting on this subject.
Such reflections require a work apart, very different from the
genius of the present. The anatomist ought never to emulate
the painter; nor in his accurate dissections and portraitures
of the smaller parts of the human body, pretend to give his
figures any graceful and engaging attitude or expression.
There is even something hideous, or at least minute, in the
views of things which he presents; and it is necessary the
objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered
up from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagina-
tion. An anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give
advice to a painter; and it is even impracticable to excel in
the latter art without the assistance of the former. We must
have an exact knowledge of the parts, their situation and
connection, before we can design with any elegance or cor-
rectness. And thus the most abstract speculations concern-
ing human nature, however cold and unentertaining, become
subservient to practical morality : and may render this latter
science more correct in its precepts, and more persuasive in
its exhortations.^

* See Appendix.

APPENDIX

There is nothing I would more willingly lay hold of than
an opportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem
such a return to truth and reason to be more honourable
than the most unerring judgment. A man who is free from
mistakes can pretend to no praises, except from the justness
of his understanding; but a man who corrects his mistakes
shows at once the justness of his understanding, and the
candour and ingenuity of his temper. I have not yet been
so fortunate as to discover any very considerable mistakes in
the reasonings delivered in the preceding volumes, except on
one article; but I have found by experience, that some of my
expressions have not been so well chosen as to guard against
all mistakes in the readers; and it is chiefly to remedy this
defect I have subjoined the following Appendix.

We can never be induced to beheve any matter of fact
except where its cause or its effect is present to us ; but what
the nature is of that belief which arises from the relation of
cause and effect, few have had the curiosity to ask themselves.
In my opinion this dilemma is inevitable. Either the belief
is some new idea, such as that of reality or existence, which
we join to the simple conception of an object, or it is merely
a peculiar feeling or sentiment. That it is not a new idea,
annexed to the simple conception, may be evinced from these
two arguments. First, We have no abstract idea of existence
distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular
objects. It is impossible, therefore, that this idea of exist-
ence can be annexed to the idea of any object, or form the
difference betwixt a simple conception and belief. Secondly,
The mind has the command over all its ideas, and can separate,
unite, mix, and vary them, as it pleases; so that, if belief
consisted merely in a new idea annexed to the conception, it
would be in a man's power to believe what he pleased. We
may therefore conclude, that belief consists merely in a

2>n

314 Hume's Philosophical Works

certain feeling or sentiment; in something that depends not
on the will, but must arise from certain determinate causes
and principles of which we are not masters. When we are
convinced of any matter of fact, we do nothing but conceive
it, along with a certain feeling, different from what attends
the mere reveries of the imagination. And when we express
our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean, that the argu-
ments for the fact produce not that feeling. Did not the
belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere con-
ception, whatever objects were presented by the wildest
imagination would be on an equal footing with the most
estabhshed truths founded on history and experience.
There is nothing but the feeling or sentiment to distinguish
the one from the other.

This, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth,
that belief is nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the
simple conception, the next question that naturally occurs is,
what is the nature of this feeling or sentiment, and whether it be
analogous to any other sentiment of the human mind ? This
question is important. For if it be not analogous to any
other sentiment, we must despair of explaining its causes,
and must consider it as an original principle of the human
mind. If it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes
from analogy, and trace it up to more general principles.
Now that there is a greater firmness and solidity in the con-
ceptions, which are the objects of conviction and assurance,
than in the loose and indolent reveries of a castle-builder,
every one will readily own. They strike upon us with more
force; they are more present to us; the mind has a firmer
hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. It
acquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes
itself on them. In short, they approach nearer to the impres-
sions, which are immediately present to us; and are therefore
analogous to many other operations of the mind. 4

There is not, in my opinion, any possibility, of evading this
conclusion, but by asserting that belief, beside the simple
conception, consists in some impression or feeling, distinguish-
able from the conception. It does not modify the concep-
tion, and render it more present and intense: it is only
annexed to it, after the same manner that will and desire are
annexed to particular conceptions of good and pleasure.

Appendix 315

But the following considerations will, I hope, be sufficient
to remove this hypothesis. First, It is directly contrary to
experience, and our immediate consciousness. All men have
ever allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our
thoughts or ideas; and however those ideas may be varied
to the feeling, there is nothing ever enters into our conclusions
but ideas, or our fainter conceptions. For instance, I hear
at present a person's voice with whom I am acquainted, and
this sound comes from the next room. This impression of
my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person,
along with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out to
myself as existent at present, with the same qualities and
relations that I formerly knew them possessed of. These
ideas take faster hold of my mind than the ideas of an
enchanted castle. They are different to the feeling; but
there is no distinct or separate impression attending them.
It is the same case when I recollect the several incidents of a
journey, or the events of any history. Every particular fact
is there the object of belief. Its idea is modified diSerently
from the loose reveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct
impression attends every distinct idea, or conception of
matter of fact. This is the subject of plain experience. If
ever this experience can be disputed on any occasion, it is
when the mind has been agitated with doubts and difficulties ;
and afterwards, upon taking the object in a nev/ point of
view, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and
reposes itself in one settled conclusion and belief. In this
case there is a feeling distinct and separate from the concep-
tion. The passage from doubt and agitation to tranquillity
and repose, conveys a satisfaction and pleasure to the mind.
But take any other case. Suppose I see the legs and thighs
of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals
the rest of his body. Here, it is certain, the imagination
spreads out the whole figure. I give him a head and
shoulders, and breast and neck. These members I conceive
and believe him to be possessed of. Nothing can be more
evident than that this whole operation is performed by the
thought or imagination alone. The transition is immediate.
The ideas presently strike us. Their customary connection
with the present impression varies them and modifies them
in a certain manner, but produces no act of the mind distinct

3i6 Hume's Philosophical Works

from this peculiarity of conception. Let any one examine
his own mind;, and he will evidently find this to be the
truth.

Secondly, Whatever n>ay be the case, with regard to this
distinct impression, it must be allowed that the mind has a
firmer hold, or more steady conception of what it takes to
be matter of fact than of fictions. Why then look any
further, or multiply suppositions without necessity?

Thirdly. We can explain the causes of the firm conception,
but not those of any separate impression. And not only so,
but the causes of the firm conception exhaust the whole
subject, and nothing is left to produce any other effect. An
inference concerning a matter of fact is nothing but the idea
of an object that is frequently conjoined, or is associated
with a present impression. This is the whole of it. Every
part is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady
conception; and nothing remains capable of producing any
distinct impression.

Fourthly, The effects of belief, in influencing the passions
and imagination, can all be explained from the firm concep-
tion; and there is no occasion to have recourse to any other
principle. These arguments, with many others, enumerated
in the foregoing volumes, sufficiently prove that belief only
modifies the idea or conception; and renders it different to
the feeling, without producing any distinct impression.

Thus, upon a general view of the subject, there appear
to be two questions of importance, which we may venture to
recommend to the consideration of philosophers, WJiether
there be anything to distinguish belief from the simple concep-
tion, beside the feeling or sentiment ? And, Whether this
feeling be anything but a firmer conception, or a faster hold,
that we take of the object ?

If, upon impartial inquiry, the same conclusion that I have
formed be assented to by philosophers, the next business is
to examine the analog}- which there is betwixt belief and
other acts of the mind, and find the cause of the firmness and
strength of conception; and this I do not esteem a difficult
task. The transition from a present impression, always
enlivens and strengthens any idea. When any object is
presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes
us, as something real and solid. It is felt rather than con-

Appendix 317

ceived, and approaches the impression^ from which it is
derived, in its force and influence. This I have proved at
large, and cannot add any new arguments.

I had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our
theory of the intellectual world might be, it would be free
from those contradictions and absurdities which seem to
attend every explication that human reason can give of the
material world. But upon a more strict review of the section
concerning -personal identity, I find myself involved in such a
labyrinth that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct
my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. If
this be not a good general reason for scepticism, it is at least
a sufficient one (if I were not already abundantly supplied)
for me to entertain a diffidence and modesty in all my
decisions. I shall propose the arguments on both sides,
beginning with those that induced me to deny the strict
and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking
being.

When we tallc of self or subsistence, we must have an idea
annexed to these terms, otherwise they are altogether unin-
telligible. Every idea is derived from preceding impressions;
and we have no impression of self or substance, as something
simple and individual. We have, therefore, no idea of them
in that sense.

Whatever is distinct is distinguishable, and whatever is
distinguishable is separable by the thought or imagination.
All perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distin-
guishable, and separable, and may be conceived as separately
existent, and may exist separately, without any contradiction
or absurdity.

When I view this table and that chimney, nothing is
present to me but particular perceptions, which are of a like
nature with all the other perceptions. This is the doctrine
of philosophers. But this table, which is present to me, and
that chimney, may, and do exist separately. This is the
doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction. There
is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine
to all the perceptions.

In general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory.
All ideas are borrowed from preceding perceptions. Our
ideas of objects, therefore, are derived from that source.

3i8 Hume's Philosophical Works

Consequently no proposition can be intelligible or consistent
with regard to objects, which is not so with regard to percepn
tions. But it is intelligible and consistent to say, that objects
exist distinct and independent, without any common simple
substance or subject of inhesion. This prop>osition, there-
fore, can never be absurd with regard to perceptions.

When I turn my reflection on myself, I never can perceive
this self without some one or more perceptions; nor can I
ever perceive anything but the preceptions. It is the
composition of these^. therefore, which forms the self.

We can conceive a thinking being to have either many
or few perceptions. Suppose the mind to be reduced even
belov/ the life of an oyster. Suppose it to have only one
perception^, as of thirst or hunger. Consider it in that situa-
tion. Do you conceive anything but merely that perception .''
Have you any notion of self or substance ? If not, the
addition of other perceptions can never give you that
notion.

The annihilation which some people suppose to follow
upon death, and which entirely destroys this self, is nothing
but an extinction of all particular perceptions; love and
hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and sensation. These,
therefore, must be the same with self, since the one cannot
survive the other.

Is self the same with substance ? If it be, how can that
question ha^-e place, concerning the substance of self, under
a change of substance? If they be distinct, what is the
difference betwixt them? For my part, I have a notion
of neither, when conceived distinct from particular per-
ceptions.

Philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, that
ice have no idea of exterjial substance, distinct from tlie ideas
of particular qualities. This must pave the way for a like
principle with regard to the mind, that we have no notion of
it, distinct from the particular perception.

So far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence.
But having thus loosened all our particular perceptions,
when I proceed to explain the principle of connection, which
binds them together, and makes us attribute to them a real
simplicity and identity, I am sensible that my account is
ver}' defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence

Appendix 319

of the precedent reasonings could have induced me to receive
it. If preceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole
only by being connected together. But no connections among
distinct existences are ever discoverable by human under-
standing. We orAy feel a connection or determination of the
thought to pass from one object to another. It follows,
therefore, that the thought alone feels personal identity,
when reflecting on the train of past perceptions that compose
a mind, the ideas of them are felt to be connected together,
and naturally introduce each other. However extra-
ordinary this conclusion may seem, it need not surprise us.
Most philosophers seem inclined to think, that personal
identity arises from consciousness, and consciousness is
nothing but a reflected thought or perception. The present
philosophy, therefore, has so far a promising aspect. But
all my hopes vanish when I come to explain the principles
that unite our successive perceptions in our thought or
consciousness. I cannot discover any theory which gives
me satisfaction on this head.

In short, there are two principles which I cannot render
consistent, nor is it in my power to renounce either of them,
viz. that all our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and
that the mind never perceives any real connection among distinct
existences. Did our perceptions either inhere in something
simple and individual, or did the mind perceive some real
connection among them, there would be no difficulty in the
case. For my part, I must plead the privilege of a sceptic,
and confess that this difficulty is too hard for my under-
standing. I pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely
insuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature
reflections, may discover some hypothesis that will reconcile
those contradictions.

I shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other
errors of less importance, which more mature reflection has
discovered to me in my reasoning. The first may be found
in Vol. I. page 62, where I say, that the distance betwixt
two bodies is known, among other things, by the angles which
the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with each other.
It is certain, that these angles are not loiown to the mind,
and consequently can never discover the distance. The
second error may be found in Vol. I. p. 98, where I say.

320 Hume's Philosophical Works

that two ideas of the same object can only be different by
their different degrees of force and vivacity. I beheve there
are other differences among ideas, which cannot properly
be comprehended under these terms. Had I said, that two
ideas of the same object can only be different by their
diSevent feeling, I should have been nearer the truth.

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THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH

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A treatise of human nature. .1911

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